Dancing with Dreams
by downbythebay
Summary: Post LWW A take on the Golden Age of Narnia: a birthday festival, a bubbly Duchess, an evil baron, and an unlikely romance. Peter/OC. Just for fun, but please let me know what you think!
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Dancing with Dreams

**Rating: **PG-13

**Read Me First:** I thought I'd give you some background information. This story shoots AU from The _Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe_, and will, eventually be Peter/OC. In this story Galma has come under Narnia, and is ruled over by a Duke (not Edmund) or in the case of this story a slightly bubbly Duchess prone to the occasional social faux passé.

For the purposes of this fic, Peter is a fresh 18, Susan 17, Edmund 15, and Lucy is 10. I realize that's a far cry from accurate, but hey, what is artistic license for anyways.

As for feedback, I love it! If you like my story or have ideas or suggestions for improvement, let me know, it'll only help me crank updates out faster. If you don't like it flame me, cry Sue, whatever it is that you do. I eat that kind of stuff for breakfast. I write first and foremost for myself (for example there's probably going to be an NC-17 version of this fic—locked within the confines of my hard drive, never to see the light of day—some time soon,) but if you like what I do post, it can only make it a million times better, so let me know!

On that note, I hope you enjoy, _Dancing with Dreams..._

1

It was a milestone for Narnia. Five years they had been free of the White Witch. Five years of peace. And after five years their High King was ascending to manhood. It seemed that it was only necessary and proper to throw the greatest party that Narnia had ever seen. Peter, of course, was not entirely disposed to the idea of throwing a grand party at Cair Paravel, but that was why Narnia had queens.

Susan was all too eager to begin the necessary preparations of planning dinners and decorations and sending invitations to all the appropriate courts from other parts of the kingdom and neighboring countries, and Lucy was more than happy to assist her sister in her scheming. More than once Peter found himself tempted to accuse them of high treason.

Otherwise, life continued just as it always had: brothers and sisters—generally—living in communion, the occasional diplomatic meeting, as well as a few hunting excursions squeezed in when palace life became too stressful, and, as always, Aslan ambled in and out as he was needed—or at his own leisure—the Pevensie children could never quite figure it out themselves.

Finally, as the weeks of the party...or festival, rather (as Lucy and Susan were making it out to be) drew nearer, Peter decided it would be far wiser to have some sort of forewarning about the upcoming festivities, than to wander in blind. So after a good bit of mental preparation he spotted Susan alone in the hall one day and approached her with his thoroughly planned inquiry.

"So...Susan...how are the plans for the party going?"

"Well," the young queen began, observing her brother critically. "We can expect the entire court from Archenland—" Peter frowned,

"All of them?"

"—But the giants from Ettinsmoor have graciously declined their invitation..." This time Peter nodded,

"It's probably for the best."

"The emperor of Calormen and his advisors are on their way as we speak," Susan continued.

"Was it absolutely necessary to invite them?" Peter could barely contain his annoyance.

"Knowing the Calormen, they'd interpret not being invited as an act of war," Susan replied. "Believe me, I'm not thrilled either," Lucy concluded. "And the King and Queen of Terebinthia regret to inform us that they will most-likely be arriving late because a violent storm caused significant damage to their royal navy."

"That's unfortunate..." Peter offered facetiously.

"Oh, not as unfortunate as the outfit Lucy's picked out for you," Susan assured him with a clever smile. Peter grimaced.

"Are you sure all this is entirely necessary?" He asked finally.

"She's you're sister," Susan reminded him. "You wouldn't want to disappoint her, now would you?"

"Not just that," Peter insisted. "This whole regalia...I mean, why can't the four of us just set aside some time to have dinner together? Maybe read some old storybooks? Or play checkers?" Susan sighed heavily.

"This isn't just for you, Peter," she reminded him. "It's for Narnia. It's time we showed these rival empires that Cair Paravel is a force to be reckoned with." She punched a fist lightly into the palm of her opposite hand for emphasis. Peter grinned.

"Spoken like a true general," he offered with an approving nod. Lucy rolled her eyes.

Just then the pair spotted Lucy running down the hall towards them. She tripped on the hem of her dress, and Peter was just close enough to put an arm out to catch her.

"Easy now," he instructed. "What's the hurry?" Lucy panted excitedly before taking a breath to form her answer.

"Aslan's back," she informed them, before pulling herself out of her brother's helping arms. "Aslan's come back." The two older siblings as Lucy made a mad dash for the throne room, before following briskly after her. They made it into the main hall in time to see Lucy push through the crowd to fall on the Great Lion's mane.

"Aslan! It's so good to see you," she announced, delighted, and incited a deep, rolling, rich laugh from the chest of the Lion.

"And you as well, Lucy," the majestic beast replied in a smiling voice.

"Welcome back, Aslan," Edmund offered, although he remained slightly standoffish.

"It's good to have you back," Peter offered finally, taking a step forward to greet Aslan.

"Peter, how are things?" He asked. Peter smiled and nodded.

"As well as can be expected," he offered, casting an accusing glance at Lucy and Susan. The young queens smiled cleverly at one another. The Great Lion almost seemed to smile as he observed the siblings, radiating the same joy they had always experienced when they were around him.

"Peter, could we speak alone for a moment?" Aslan asked, although it was not really a question. Peter nodded.

"Yes, of course," He agreed. "We'll take a walk through the gardens." Aslan gave and approving nod of his head.

The young man and the Lion walked together down the gently sloped marble stairs leading to the extravagant palace gardens where the Pevensies had shared many quiet moments together, over meals or even the occasional game of hide-and-go-seek.

"Peter," Aslan began his voice rich and rolling. "There's no urgency in what I'm about to ask of you..." Peter nodded for him to go on. "But now that you're of age, you may want to start to consider your search for a wife." Peter stopped to ponder the thought before nodding.

"If I happen to come across the right girl, or woman as it may be," he consented, "I'll be sure to keep it in mind."

"It seems that Susan is planning you a marvelous party," Aslan noted in a polite aside. Peter smiled.

"Perhaps a little too marvelous," the young king replied with a slight laugh, and the great Lion almost seemed to smile along with him.

Peter surveyed the horizon, catching a glance of the nearby, quiet harbor, knowing that any day now it would be busy and crowded with ships, from distant lands, arriving for the festivities.

_**OOOOO**_

Zoya stood at the stern end of the tall ship, alongside one of her most beloved friends, looking across the horizon to observe the rest of the armada.

"She may not be the brightest woman in the world," Ciaran, supplied from where he was leaning against the rail beside her. "But you have to admit, the Duchess of Galma can certainly make an entrance." Zoya smiled and placed her long, pale hand on top of his callused, tanned one.

"That she can," the young girl agreed. "That she can...although I've never been partial to such grandeur myself." Ciaran smiled down at her with soulful brown eyes.

"You may want to get used to it," He suggested. Zoya surveyed him quizzically. Ciaran cocked his heat to one side. "Zoya, you know well and good that you're the only person in all of Narnia that the Duchess is actually fond of..."

"And?" The young girl pressed, as the boat rocked gently back and forth with the waves across the sea.

"And," Ciaran replied. "We all know Lady Oilell, Duchess of Galma, is not going to be having children any time soon, so if things go well this week, and she receives permission from the High King to name her own heir, you're first in line." Zoya rolled her eyes.

"Not if Lord Bearach has anything to say about it," Zoya answered. Ciaran scoffed and rolled his eyes. "You shouldn't underestimate him. He is the Baron, and a trusted advisor of the Duchess...for whatever reason," she added as an aside.

"I'm still hoping for you," the boy offered. Zoya smiled up at him.

"You're a good friend," she said warmly. Ciaran nodded.

"You too..." He offered her with a mischievous smile. "But not such a good dancer."

"Is that so?" Zoya asked. The dark-haired young man nodded as she lunged at him. He quickly sidestepped out of her way and Zoya cast him a playful glare. "If I'm a bad dancer, then you're a terrible dancer. I wouldn't be surprised if His Highness the King has you imprisoned for insulting his distinguished court with your mediocrity and ineptitude."

"Is that so?" Ciaran answered, pouting mockingly, and then laughed, looking as though he hadn't understood a word of what she had just said. "You've been reading too much." He warned.

"What I meant," explained Zoya defiantly. "Was that you're boring and clumsy!" Ciaran let out a deep, rolling laugh.

"I always wondered how you really felt about me," he laughed teasingly.

"Ciaran! Zoya!' The cry came from another entertainer from the court at Galma. It was Malika, a talented flute player, who was—like Ciaran and Zoya—in her later teens. Her blonde curls were being whipped into tufts by the sea breeze as she ran to them, shouting, "They say we'll be coming up to Cair Paravel any minute now."

Zoya took off sprinting towards the front of the ship. She slid to a stop at the mast, and started her swift ascent of the forechains with an almost loving sense of familiarity. She was still ten feet below the crow's nest when the great white palace appeared on the horizon, still with the red sunset afterglow in its wake. And so it was that Zoya fist laid eyes on Cair Paravel and Narnia.

_**OOOOO**_

It was still early morning when Peter offered to take Lucy for a long walk. The truth was it was more of an escape for him than an outing for his young sister. The truth was that Susan was becoming quite unbearable. They walked far down to a quite section of the Great River, sparsely shaded with trees.

Lucy was quick to set herself down searching for treasures, smooth stones, beautiful wildflowers, even the occasional shiny beetle. Still wide-eyed and innocent, after five magnificent years. Peter slid off his shoes and settled down in the shade of a shapely pair tree, and rested his feet in the gently-flowing, cool river water.

Occasionally Lucy would offer to share the object of her wonderment with him, but as the High King's disinterest became more apparent she decided it was better to leave him to his thoughts.

Peter mused over many things that were important to running an empire: creating new battle strategies, pondering various types of weaponry and the different advantages and disadvantages associated with them, the words and gestures of a proper greeting, as well as the steps to the waltzes and corantos he'd be expected to know for the post-dinner balls. And somewhere in all his thinking, in the warmth of the sun on his face, and the occasional cool breeze on his skin, he nodded off to sleep.

He woke groggily some time later, and jumped up at the sight of the red sunset on his skin. He surveyed the small clearing frantically for any sign of his sister.

"Lucy!" He yelled, looking around anxiously. "Lucy!"

"I'm right here, Peter," his younger sister replied finally, stepping out from a small group of trees. "What's wrong?"

"Lu, how long was I asleep?" He asked worriedly. The young Queen Lucy shrugged.

"A few hours," she offered finally. "You looked like you might be having a good dream; I didn't want to wake you." They could hear a trumpet's fanfare in the distance and Peter glanced out to the once quiet harbor to find that it was already bustling with remarkable ships.

"Susan is going to murder us if we're late," he declared before breaking into a run through the field, Lucy dragging behind. "Come on Lucy, keep up!"

"I can't!" The younger girl yelled back to him, laughing and panting. Peter stopped, hunching over to lift Lucy up onto his back before sprinting back to the castle.

Queen Susan was waiting in the hall for them, looking extremely put out.

"By the Lion's mane!" She started up as soon as they were in earshot. "Where have you been?" Peter let Lucy down slowly, trying to decide if they would have to make another run for it as he opened his mouth to explain.

"Never mind," Susan cut him off. "Lucy, go get ready. Honestly, Peter," she continued, ushering him down the hall to his bed chamber. "I don't know where you get off, running a country...when you can't even be on time to your own ball!"

She entered his scarlet and gold ornamented room, and pushed him behind a decorative rice-paper screen in the corner by the wardrobe. She averted and thrust a new dress tunic at him as he began to undress.

"Susan," the High King began apprehensively.

"What's wrong now?" Susan replied growing even shorter on patience.

"This tunic," he started up at a loss for words.

"What about it?" Susan questioned. Peter sighed heavily, unfurling it in front of his bare chest,

"It's pink!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes from the authoress:** Big thanks to everyone for the positive feedback!

And I realize I use a lot of the French ballet-lingo, especially within the next chapter or two, even though I doubt Narnians would, because, honestly, you can't talk about dance without using French.

2

"Oh, Your Highness!" Peter forced a smile as the plump woman rushed to embrace him.

"Lady Oilell," he offered, forcing a slight, uncomfortable laugh as she grabbed his face to kiss his cheek. "It's good to see you again."

"Oh it's good to see you," she offered, looking up at him. Even with the added height of her wild, dark hair, she only reached the Narnian King's shoulders. "Look at you. A man already, and so handsome...I expect the ladies are coming to call by now." Peter nodded awkwardly.

"A few," he managed to force out. The Duchess of Galma scoffed good-naturedly.

"A few? Oh, posh," she teased, catching his understatement, sighing heavily. "Let me tell, you, if I were a few years younger—" Peter blushed with furious discomfort at the notion.

A boy-king of a different upbringing may not have stood for such embarrassment. But, Peter reasoned, even if he was the High King of Narnia, the Duchess was still quite a few years his senior, and so deserved his respect...or at least his disgruntled tolerance.

"You know I was just going to greet some of the other guests, Lady Oilell, perhaps you'd like to join me?" Peter sighed in relief as Susan came to his rescue.

"Why that would be lovely, yes, thank you," the older woman agreed. "Oh, I trust you remember the Baron, Lord Bearach." The Duchess motioned to the dark, rigid man to her right.

"Yes of course," Peter extended an arm to offer the man a stiff handshake meeting the Baron's paralyzing stare resiliently. (Young Queen Lucy had been the first to propose the handshake as the official greeting at Cair Paravel, although it did take Mr. Tumnus a good while to get the hang of it.)

Peter had admittedly never liked Lord Bearach, but Lady Oilell seemed rather fond of him and so, as affable as she (usually) was, Peter reasoned, how much trouble could he be?

The trumpets sounded to signal the start of dinner, and all the guests began to file into the grand dining hall. There were three long oaken tables arranged in a sort of inverted 'U' with chairs only on one side so that the serving and clearing of the various courses could be done more easily. The four kings and queens were seated at the shorter table that was perpendicular to the two others with seats placed between them, so that mingling with the foreign dignitaries would be easier.

The dinnertime entertainment was exquisite. There were jugglers and gymnasts from Archenland, performing comic and shocking feats, skilled swordsmen reenacting famous battles and duels of ages long past. Even the men from Calormen with painted faces breathing fire and swallowing swords were entertaining. All the while they were accompanied by the most skilled instrumentalists in all of Narnia.

The food had been exceptional. Every delightful food you could imagine was being served. Roasted duck and turkey, as well as glazed hams and rich beef stew. Every vegetable imaginable had mad and an appearance, whether mashed, creamed, or backed in a delicious casserole. And of course, there were always several trays of sardines circulating the table.

By the time the tasty desert of steamed pudding, baked apples, and cherry pie, and the preparations for the ball had begun, the Duchess of Galma had finally maneuvered her way into the seat beside Peter.

"My Lords, my Ladies, and Your Royal Highnesses," Lord Bearach announced, coming forward as a new group of musicians entered the hall. There was a young man with drums of polished wood and leather, a curvaceous young girl with bouncing curls of blond hair and a flute, as well as various other elements of string and brass.

"I would like to introduce," the shady Baron continued as the musicians began to play a melee of notes and chords behind him. "For your pleasure, the Galma corps de ballet would like to present a modern comedy."

"Oh a comedy!" Lucy began excitedly.

"It's positively delightful," the Duchess Oilell replied, leaning into Peter casually. The young king recoiled awkwardly as she continued, "One of the coryphée came up with the whole thing. It's really a delightful dance. Don't you think it's just delightful, Your Highness?"

"Well," Peter answered slowly, choosing his words carefully. "I haven't seen it yet."

_**OOOOO**_

"I feel naked as a jaybird," one of the young dancers waiting out in the hall declared.

"Yes, but as proud as a peacock as well," Zoya replied and laughed, watching one of her closest friends adjusted the scrap of leather secured over her front by thin strings crisscrossed on her back. The other girl laughed, Adele was a sweet girl, kind, with a good sense of humor, and well-liked by everyone.

"You look better in it than I do, Adele," Zoya offered, citing her generous curves.

All the female dancers wore the same brown leather tops and gauzy, multicolored skirts that were tattered at the bottom to give a flowing effect with every movement they made. The two male dancers wore lightweight, straight-leg black slacks and quarter-length-sleeved shirts.

"Well," Adele offered at length, "We both look like cows compared to..." Her voice trailed off, but Zoya followed her gaze to Isi, the slender beauty with raven hair and eyes darker than coal, she was also the troupe's primary soloist.

"If you mess up again I'll break your legs!" The high-pitched squeal pulled the girls from their jealous reverie, as Isi had targeted Ciaran for her latest outburst. He wrung his hands together nervously as she stomped away.

"Hey," Zoya offered him sweetly, reaching up to touch his shoulder. "Everything alright?" He nodded, swallowing awkwardly.

"Just have to remember how to breathe," he replied with a nervous smile. There was a pause between them before he asked, "Are we going to do the lift?"

"Of course," the young woman answered. He smiled down at her and she smiled back.

"You trust me?" He questioned, Zoya nodded.

"You're the strongest man I know," she reminded him. A lock of Ciaran's shoulder-length, light-brown hair had come loose from where it had been tied behind his neck and Zoya went to brush it out of his eyes.

"Do you want to practice it?" He asked, "Once more." That was when they heard their accompanists strike their opening chord.

"I suppose not then," Zoya replied, seeming nervous. "Well, let's have fun then." Ciaran rolled his eyes.

"And be safe," he reminded her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes from the authoress:** Well, here's some more chronologically incorrect French for your pleasure...

3

The music was very up beat as the dancers entered the hall. Seven of them total, to men, five women. Their costumes revealed dramatically less skin than the Calormene soloist's had earlier that evening, but still left less to the imagination than Peter would have preferred at his court. Flowing, gauzy skirts with skin-toned hosiery underneath, and deerskin tops secured around the back by a few strips of leather.

The first part of the dance was comprised of some quick steps and beats, and some simple port de bras, which was preformed in perfect unison, with the exception of one girl who circled her arms the opposite way, and ended up hitting the girl beside her.

The two began to feign an argument, which escalated into a physical brawl, and ended with the two male dancers having to pry the girls apart and carry them to opposite corners of their stage.

Lucy was in absolute hysterics and the rest of the nobles at the dining table were not far behind.

Finally one of the dancers took it upon herself to restore order, clapping her hands together their attention. She executed a graceful camber, demonstrating the proper way to bend forward at the hips. The other dancers made to follow her example, and as one of the girls leaned forward she bumped her forehead on another girl's backside. More laughter circulated the grand hall.

"Isn't that clever," the Duchess commented forcefully. Peter nodded politely before redirecting his attention to the dance.

They were jumping now, performing rapid beats in the air, with the exception of one girl who was hopping and kicking her legs out desperately in the air. The ballerina seemed quite frustrated by corps member's ineptitude.

"What I like most about this dance," the Duchess explained. "Is that although they make occasional mistakes, they're still demonstrating their impeccable skill. Don't you think Your Highness?" Peter nodded, waving the Duchess off, still trying to concentrate on the performance.

The dancers were now moving off to either side of their performance area, with the exception of the taller of the two danseurs noble and one of the more voluptuous young dancers. He made a motion, to indicate that he wanted to pick her up. She nodded, hurrying to the other side of the room.

A look of shock and anxiety was plastered on her partners face as she charged him, prompting the whole audience to gasp as she leapt into his arms. He grabbed her by the waist and flipped her upside-down over his head (dancers wear tights, people, tights!)

She had her chin to her chest and her head resting on his shoulders with her arms wrapped behind his neck. He slid his hands down past her hips to get a better grip to let her down, letting her start to fold in half, rolling down the length of his body to the floor a little at a time.

"That's my Zoya," the Duchess stated fondly as the guests all began to clap. She was the "She was the only one brave enough to try that."

"Did he ever drop her?" Peter found himself interested in what the Duchess had to say for the first time that evening.

"A hundred times at least," Lady Oilell answered chipperly. "But they were determined."

Now she was skipping excitedly over to join the line of girls preparing to leap through one another, and seemed to trip over her own feet, and landed palms down, her elbows collapsing under her, sending her face to meet the floor. Peter found himself ready to jump up to help.

"It's all part of the show," the Duchess laughed finally. Sure enough just a second later she sprung up as if nothing had ever happened.

The leaps across the floor were breathtaking, these perfect splits in the air, maybe three, four feet off the ground, one right after the other. One came from the right, and then another from the left so that they seemed to pass one another dangerously. That was until the very last girl ran to the center, and jumped facing the center table, limps spread out in an 'X' in midair, and a huge smile on her face

Lucy applauded pleasantly as one girl came back to the center of the room to perform a long string of turns with her leg whipping in and out in rapid successions. The dining hall exploded in applause as she landed in a graceful lunge.

The dancers moved into a pinwheel formation and performed intricate turning steps and arabesques. As it became apparent that the music was drawing to an end they separated by pirouetting into these grand spiraling attitude leaps to the floor.

From there it was an impromptu to clear the floor. Some were turning others leaping others performing traveling grand battements and illusions. The Duchess was quick to point out the girl from the lift as she came straight up from her knees into a double turn.

"That step there," she explained. "Requires purse strength."

"Lady Oilell," Peter started up finally in frustration. "As fascinating as your commentary is, I think it distracting me from the dance."

"Oh yes of course," she offered without fail, allowing him to return his attention to the floor.

There was one girl left on the floor as the last chords were stuck. She flipped herself from a backwards shoulder roll, into a straddle, throwing her torso to the floor with her chin resting on her crossed arms.

The final beat of the music was one of the cornet players simulating the high-pitched chirrup of a neighing horse. The dinner guests laughed and applauded, as she rose to her feet and went to join the rest of the ensemble.

At the same time the Duchess's favored coryphée came to the front table to whisper into the older woman's ear.

_**OOOOO**_

"Oh, what a wonderful idea!" The Duchess exclaimed, turning to address the High King. "Is there any particular dance Your Highness would like to see before the ball is to begin?"

"Oh, let's see something splendid, Peter," Lucy hissed excitedly. Peter thought for a moment before responding,

"Show me something I've never seen before," he suggested, leaning back into his chair lazily.

"A zarabanda then?" The Duchess suggested. The Narnian King nodded.

"Sounds exciting," he offered in approval.

_**OOOOO**_

Zoya caught Ciaran by the arm. "We're going to do the zarabanda," she told him and watched the color drain from his face.

"I—I—I don't think I can," he offered, voice shaking uneasily.

"Hey," she replied softly. "Yes you can. Because you're not going to look anywhere but at me alright. You're going to look just at me, and imagine that we're back home, out on the lawn messing around, alright?"

"I think I can manage," he answered with a slight nod.

"No," she corrected gently. "You're gong to do it, because you can."

"Okay," he agreed, letting his hair down and shaking his head to get his bearings.

"Malika," Zoya called to the young flutist. "Three-four into six-eight, please." She clapped a rhythm to demonstrate. The flutist nodded, and Zoya moved to the center of the room with Ciaran as the drums began to play.

The two stood flush together as the music began, a little slower at first, allowing for three graceful steps into a turn and more dramatic hip lifts accompanying each. As the music picked up he spun her out, and then pulled her back in, wrapping his arm around her, holding her in front of him.

_**OOOOO**_

Peter suddenly became aware of how dry his mouth was as he watched the pair dancing.

She swayed her hips and spun away from him, and kicked her ankle onto his shoulder. He caught her leg and dragged her across the floor, before pushing her away aggressively.

She went straight into a fan kick, her other leg following as her body went down, hair brushing the floor. She wasn't even extraordinarily pretty, with long hazel brown hair, wavy and wild, and skin blanched as the glow of the moon. It was the way she moved that demanded the attention of the kings and counselors. And the way she smiled with proud disinterest.

She rolled over her toes and hit the floor on her knees, and then threw herself up into an arch. Small at first, rising just a few inches off the ground, and then a little bit higher, the last time she arched back until little more than the tops of her feet were resting on the floor.

She rolled onto her side and her partner took one of her arm and one of her ankles to spin her off the ground. He tossed her into the air and caught her bridal style, and she threw her arms out excitedly.

The audience clapped as he set her back on her feet and the musicians began another upbeat tune as the young girl approached the table again. Edmund's mouth still hung open slightly as she approached him.

"Your Royal Highness," she began with a sweet smile. "May I have this dance?"

Susan nudged Ed to pull him from his reverie.

"What?" He started up, seeming rather dazed.

"Dance, Ed, a dance," Lucy urged excitedly. Edmund looked around the room franticly for some sort of excuse to remain in his seat.

"Go on Ed," Susan suggested as the young dancer offered him a hand.

"Go on," Peter instructed his brother light-heartedly. Edmund reluctantly took the girl's hand and she led him around the table to the designated dance floor.

She placed his other hand on her waist for him and took a step into the young king. He took a definitive step back, his face as red as the palace's ruby decorations. The other young monarchs smiled at their brother's shyness.

The young dancer was understanding enough and directed him in the steps of a simple waltz. The two danced about half the sound before Edmund returned to his seat and the young male dancer moved to ask Lucy for a dance.

"Now wait one minute, sir!" Peter lept up suddenly, pointing an accusing finger. "That is my sister!" The shocked dancer took a step back.

"You never let me have any fun!" Lucy protested. "I never get to do anything!"

"Lucy calm down," Susan instructed everything.

"I am not going to calm down as long as you keep insisting on treating me like a child!" Lucy protested.

"You are a child," Edmund reminded her audaciously.

"And you're not far behind her," Peter hissed. "Now we are done discussing this." Lucy 'hmphed' crossing her arms over her chest in agitation and sunk down in her chair.

"Ah, my little Queen," she heard a soft voice behind her. Lucy turned to look over to the young dancer. She cam around to face Lucy and knelt down in front of her. "Would you like to see a magic trick?"

"Magic?" Lucy questioned eagerly. The girl nodded. "What kind of magic?"

"Well," the young girl began, reaching to take a scarlet cloth napkin off the table, holding both ends in her hands. "I'm going to tie a knot in this napkin here."

"That's not magic," Lucy protested.

"But it is," the young entertainer insisted, gathering the napkin into her hands. "Now put your hands over mine," she instructed and Lucy did so. "Now shake them," the girl directed. Lucy shook their hands back and forth, then left and right, giggling all the while. "Now let go!" Came the final order, and they both did at the same time, letting the napkin drop to the floor, revealing the knot tied in it.

"I told you it was magic," the dancer announced, handing the napkin to the young queen.

"That isn't magic," Lucy protested again.

"Why of course it is," the older girl insisted.

"If you can really do magic, then show me another trick," Lucy ordered.

"Alright," the girl agreed. "But I'll need a piece of paper." Lucy pondered a minute before replying.

"We should go to the library then," she said, jumping from her seat. "What's your name by the way?"

"My name, dear Queen," the dancer replied. "Is Zoya."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes from the authoress:**

4

"Well, this is the library," Lucy announced, opening the large doors to the grand room. There was a wall of shelves from floor to ceiling, filled with leather-bound books, all the same sizes.

"This is amazing," Zoya noted in wonderment, running her hand across the gold lettering on the spines of several books. "Have you read them all?"

"Oh goodness no!" Lucy laughed, heading over to a desk. "My sister, and my brothers, and I all like to read different kinds of books. Susan loves romance stories, and Edmund likes mysteries, Peter has always preferred history books recounting famous battles and the like, and there's a whole section full of mythology and fairy tales for me. What's your favorite?"

"Oh I could never choose," Zoya admitted wistfully. "My father colleted books from around the world, and he would read them to me at night, and no matter what they were about, with the way he read, I couldn't help but love each and every word."

"Ah! I've found a piece of paper," Lucy declared triumphantly, removing a scrap of parchment from one of the desk drawers. "Now sit, and show me this trick." The two sat side by side on one of the comfortable couches by the roaring fire and Zoya took the paper in her long, pale hands.

"Well, it's actually a bit of a story," she explained. "You see, since the dawn of time there have been four corners of the world," Zoya began, folding the paper corner to corner twice over, forming four sections. "For earth, water, fire, and air," she explained, folding each corner in. "And long ago there lives a very beautiful woman, and her name was Malloren..."

As the tale went on, the paper figure began to take shape, until the very end of the story when its final form was revealed.

"And so," Zoya concluded the story, "To keep Mallorensafe from the hag who lived in the mountain, the strong north wind transformed her into—"

"A bird," Lucy finished, excitedly as Zoya handed her the paper-bird.

"A swan," Zoya added with a fond smile at the young Queen's pleasure in the simple paper creation.

"That is wonderful," the younger girl exclaimed. "Can I tell you a secret?" Lucy asked, laughing slightly, leaning in. "As a friend."

"Why of course," Zoya answered in a hushed whisper, offering her ear. "As my friend you can tell me anything you'd like." Lucy giggled.

"I think you rather frightened my brother earlier," she admitted gleefully. "I'm not sure he likes girls yet." Zoya laughed.

"I do hope he comes around," she wished aloud. The pleasantries of the pair were intruded by the blast of trumpets. Lucy frowned.

"I do believe that means the party is over for tonight," she grumbled slightly.

"Well then I suppose we should be getting back," Zoya suggested, rising. "Good night Your Majesty."

"Zoya," the young queen interceded. "As long as we're friends, you'd best start calling me Lucy." Zoya smiled on her way out of the library."

"Sweet dreams, Lucy," she said softly.

_**OOOOO**_

Peter watched his younger sister's interaction with the Calormene prince with disdain. The complacent prince's intentions had been clear from the beginning, and Peter found it repulsive. And what was worse was that Susan was going along with it, perhaps out of politeness, and perhaps she enjoyed the attention, either way, Peter didn't like it.

"Where's Lucy," the question interrupted his thoughts.

"What?" Peter started up, looking over to Susan.

"Where's Lucy?" The queen repeated insistently. Peter had to shrug. "You probably upset her, you know." The young queen criticized. Peter rose.

"I'll go look for her," he offered starting out into the antechamber. He cast a tired glance around the long hall before turning to head back into the ball room. That's when he felt a small pair of arms grab him around the waist. Peter looked down to find Lucy was all smiles.

"Where have you been?" He asked curiously. Lucy smiled up at him.

"I showed Zoya the library," she admitted.

"Who's Zoya?" Peter asked, arching a delicate eyebrow.

"You know, Edmunds friend," she offered with a laugh. "The dancer, oh she's so nice...and clever. She showed me a magic trick, and tells the best storied. I think you'd like her. Can we invite her to breakfast tomorrow, Peter, please?"

"Alright," Peter agreed. "I'll invite her, but let's see that you get into bed first." Lucy put her arms out with a mischievous smile. Peter laughed hoisting her into his arms like a sleeping princess. Lucy wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself up to give him a kiss on the cheek.

_**OOOOO**_

Zoya sat down on the small makeshift bed in the servants' quarters and removed the leather sandals from her sore feet. Her legs and arms were covered in fresh bruises and every muscle and joint was beginning to ache. She felt grody and dirty, and bathing her face in the basin on the nightstand did little to make her feel cleaner.

She changed out of her sweat-soaked clothes and into a plain white, cotton dress, pulling her hair off her face into a utilitarian-tail, and rubbed a witch-hazel salve to her bruises. It stunk like bitterroot and moss shroud earth, but it served well enough to numb the pain and aching.

She had shied away from the servants' dinner and revelry at their journey to Narnia, and instead chose to seek refuge in the dorm room she would be sharing with three or four other girls, and crawled into her small bed with clean, cotton linens, and tried to sleep. Her efforts were dashed when, not a moment after she had drifted into peaceful semi-consciousness, Malika burst in excitedly.

"Zoya, what are you doing in bed?" She chorused in an eager trill. Zoya sat up, eyeing her compatriot groggily. "Zoya, King Peter's asking for you." The words shocked Zoya out of any trace of slumber.

"What?" She questioned. "Why?" Malika shrugged.

"He only asked me to fetch you," the young musician replied. "Oh think about it...Peter the Magnificent, the once and future High King of Narnia, actually spoke to me!" Zoya rolled her eyes slightly as she stood and smoothed the rumples out of her dress.

"Relax," she instructed her friend. "He's only a man."

And as she made her way out of the dark chamber into the dimming firelight of the visiting servant's small sitting room, that was exactly what she kept telling herself:

"He's only a man."

A man, some would name him, still others would yet call him a boy. But there was no disputing the fact that Peter the Magnificent was a magnificently beautiful creature; in everything from his handsome proportions, to his earnest smile, to his porcelain skin with ambrosial raspberry lips, and his sun-kissed hair—complemented by the elegant soft-pink shade of his tunic. And then there were his eyes. Eyes like the sea at daybreak.

_**OOOOO**_

Seeing the young dancer up close did little to change Peter's opinion of her rather ordinary appearance. Long chestnut hair with faint tones of copper and bronze, and skin as pale as virgin snow. Her face was kind, round cheeks with a hint of a rosy blush, thick strawberry-pink lips, and deep set eyes, forest green, flecked with brown, as if they had been fashioned from the earth itself. Her dress was white and hung of her ample curves, though, Peter gauged it was mostly muscle from her wide hips into her thighs and calves. If she was younger him, it wasn't by much.

"Zoya," he questioned politely.

"Yes, Your Highness," she replied with a slight curtsy.

"I wanted to thank you for entertaining my sister," he explained. "She tends to get a little restless when these diplomatic proceedings start to drag on."

"It was really no trouble at all, Your Highness," she assured him. "I quite enjoyed it."

"Still, she seems quite fond of you," King Peter insisted.

"Yes," the young girl agreed. "It seems we're friends now."

"Friends?" He questioned in interest. "Yes...yes, she wanted me to invite you to have breakfast with us, my siblings and me, tomorrow morning—out on the garden veranda. Would you be interested?"

Normally, Zoya would have politely declined the invitation, but she was fond of Lucy, and the way the High King spoke seemed so genuine, as though they would have truly enjoyed her company.

"I would greatly appreciate it," the young King added as an after thought.

"It sounds lovely," Zoya announced at length. "It sounds lovely and I would be delighted." King Peter smiled broadly.

"You'll come?" He confirmed and she nodded.

"If it is your will, then may it be," Zoya agreed.

"Then I shall see you tomorrow morning," he bid her farewell. Zoya nodded.

"I'll look forward to it," she answered. "Goodnight."

"Sleep well," the king offered before taking his leave of the servants' quarters.

'Magnificently beautiful,' Zoya decided as she watched him walk away. 'And magnificently kind.'


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes from the authoress:** Well, here's the next part on account.

5

In the morning pure light brought Zoya out of her sleep. It was relaxing to be awoken by the white light of nature instead of the yellow glow of candle and torch before the sun had even made her first appearance in the morning sky. She stretched as sighed, savoring the feeling of the soft sheets sliding along her cool skin, before she reluctantly pulled herself out of bed.

She had only brought a few articles of clothing, a dress for everyday occasions, the clothes she danced in, and one of her finer dresses, which she now produced from her small bag. It was long, with a semi-full skirt, a pale shade of grey-green with a dark hunter sash around the waist. The long sleeves and high neckline served to hide her bruises and scrapes. She even donned her soft leather sandals before heading out to meet the kings and queens for breakfast.

Zoya had been wandering through the palace corridors aimlessly for several moments before she realized she had no idea where the garden veranda was. She had just been working up her courage to as one of the guards when she heard her name being called.

"Zoya! There you are," the young dancer turned to find Queen Lucy coming towards her. "We'd better hurry," the young queen instructed, offering a hand to the older girl. "Or we'll be late."

Lucy led the way, running, skipping, and laughing down the halls to a simple, bright sitting room. A set of glass doors led out onto a white marble porch where the other three monarchs were seated at an exquisitely set table. Several other outlandish creatures were present as Lucy offered introductions.

"These are my siblings, of course," she began. "Peter, Susan, and you know Edmund."

"Hello again," the High King offered with a polite wave.

"Good morning," the regal Queen Susan offered.

Edmund blushed and waved, and tried to conceal himself behind an arrangement of flowers.

"Good morning," Zoya replied with a shy smile.

"Oh and this is Oreius, the Captain of the Guard," Lucy added, indicating an armor-clad centaur. Zoya nodded her head politely.

"It's very nice to meet you, sir," she offered awkwardly.

"And you as well, my Lady," the centaur answered with the slightest bow. Zoya opened her mouth to respond, but the enthused queen grabbed her wrist pulling her away.

"And here," she continued her introductions. "Mr. Tumnus, this is Zoya. Zoya, **this**—is Mr. Tumnus."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr. Tumnus," Zoya offered with a warm-hearted smile.

"Likewise," replied Mr. Tumnus.

"Now, Mr. Tumnus, you sit here," Lucy instructed, ushering the faun to the seat besides Queen Susan. "And Zoya, you sit here," she offered the young dancer the seat between herself and Mr. Tumnus, and the whole table couldn't help but smile at her arrangement.

"Umm, Mr. Tumnus," Zoya began awkwardly. "You're a faun?" Tumnus laughed lightheartedly.

"I can't imagine how you guessed," he teased lightly, prompting laughter from around the table.

"Well, yes, leave it to me to state the obvious," Zoya agreed. "But they are somewhat related to satyrs, aren't they?"

"Yes, they are quite similar," Tumnus confirmed lightly.

"It's just that my grandmother—my mother's mother," Zoya explained to the curious table. "She was a dryad..."

"That practically makes us cousins then," Mr. Tumnus offered.

"Oh you don't happen to play the aulos do you?" Zoya asked hopefully. "My father had one, once, of course he was never able to master it. But it's been such a long time since I've heard one..."

"Why yes, I do," Tumnus assured her. "Though it seems I don't have it with me..."

"I'll run and get it Mr. Tumnus!" Lucy offered, ready to leap up.

"Let's eat breakfast first," Susan interceded.

"Sometimes I think you'd starve, Lucy," Edmund jested. "If someone weren't always there to remind you when you had to sit down and eat."

Their breakfast was served: thin, sugared pancakes with honey spiced butter and wild berries, fresh apples and peaches, and hot tea with saffron cream.

Though Edmund was cautious of Zoya still, through the meal he found that she was a much less commanding presence when she was not dancing, and he slowly began to warm up to her. They talked casually, sharing stories and laughing, and it seemed that for the first time in a very long time, Zoya felt at home.

_**OOOOO**_

"I've found your flute, Mr. Tumnus," Lucy announced, presenting the faun with the double-piped instrument.

"Why thank you, Lucy," he offered, going to raise the instrument to his mouth. "Now I might be a little rusty..." He began to play, the sweet, hallow sound filling the air around them. Zoya closed her eyes and swayed back and forth until she couldn't contain herself any longer.

"Dance with me Lucy?" She asked extending her hand politely. Lucy leapt up, and they skipped and hopped out onto the lawn.

"Imagine that," Peter laughed wholeheartedly as Mr. Tumnus's hooves clipped and clopped on the stone floor, keeping time. "Our little Lucy dancing like a nymph." Edmund rolled his eyes, scoffing:

"Tra la la, I'm a nymph! Tra la la, I'm not wearing a corset!"

"Edmund!" Susan snapped. "Don't be rude!"

"What?" The young king defended. "It seemed like something a nymph would say."

Lucy and Zoya simply laughed and spun and skipped out on the lawn like they hadn't a care in the world, side by side and around in circles until everything else seemed to fade away, and even the grasses and trees were joining the revelry, swaying softly in a cool breeze.

"Would you care to join us, Susan?" Lucy asked at length. The older queen laughed and shook her head, waving her sister away.

The song eventually ended and the sibling clapped politely as the performance concluded.

"That was wonderful," Zoya announced as the two returned to their seats at the table. "Lucy, you are a wonderful partner." Lucy beamed taking a refreshing sip of her lemonade as Zoya flattened her dress.

"Well, Edmund and I were planning on going hunting after breakfast," Peter announced at length, once the dishes had been cleared away. "Would anyone care to join us?"

"You boys and your hunting," Susan scoffed lightheartedly. "While _I_ am trying to throw the party of the _century_!"

"I'll take that as a 'no'," Peter reasoned. "Lucy?" The young queen sulked momentarily.

"I still have to finish my lessons," she answered, somewhat forlorn.

"Zoya?" Peter prompted, "You're more that welcome to join us."

"Thank you, that sounds lovely." Their young guest replied. "But I'm afraid the Duchess may require my company today."

"Very well," Peter concluded. "Looks like it's just me and you then, Ed."

"Well thank you so much for the invitation, once again," Zoya offered, rising. "Breakfast was delicious, and it was really wonderful meeting all of you...especially you, Mr. Tumnus."

"Do you need to be accompanied back to your quarters?" The High King asked politely.

"Thank you, no. I'll be fine," Zoya offered. "I do hope to see you all again." She concluded, waving to Lucy as she headed inside and made her way back to the servants' dorms.

_**OOOOO**_

She entered the common room, and soon found herself being assailed. Lord Bearach grabbed her wrist and cornered her against the wall. She grunted in pain as her head hit hard.

"Where in holy hell have you been?" He demanded rudely. She whined, trying to twist out of his grasp.

"The king invited me to have breakfast with his family," she explained harshly. A look of contemplation crossed the older man's face.

"You had breakfast with the kings and queens," he made to confirm.

"Yes," she grunted, trying to push him away.

"What happened," the Lord demanded firmly.

"What?" Zoya questioned in distress.

"What were they talking about?" He insisted.

"Nothing in particular," Zoya explained, slightly confused. "The High King invited me to go hunting with him—"

"And you said yes," the Lord prompted.

"No of course not," she replied. "I didn't want to intrude...besides I thought the Duchess might miss me."

"You useless girl," Lord Bearach grunted in exasperation.

"Better a useless girl than a bully!" Zoya returned, finally managing to wrench her wrist out of the older man's grip. He caught both her shoulders in his strong hands and forced her body up against the wall.

"Listen to me," he growled threateningly. "You are going to go to His Highness the King, and tell him that the Duchess has released you for the day, and that you would love to join him on his little hunting trip, and you are not going to let him out of your sight."

"Are you mad?" Zoya challenged. "I can't go to the king without his summons."

"Make your choice girl," the Baron warned. "It's his wrath...or mine. It's your choice."


	6. Chapter 6

"Your Highness! Your Highness!" Peter stopped halfway across the courtyard and turned on his heels.

"Zoya, is everything alright?" He asked in surprise. She was running towards him with her skirt hitched up around her knees. She slowed to a brisk walk as she approached him.

"Oh yes," she relied, struggling to catch her breath. "It's only that Lady Oilell has released me for today...and I was wondering, if your offer still stands, I'd really enjoy going hunting with you."

"Is that so?" He made to confirm politely.

"A tour of Narnia's forests from the king himself," she offered with a slight shrug. "How could I resist?" Peter smiled.

"Is it alright with you Ed?" Peter questioned his brother. Edmund shrugged silently and continued to walk towards the barn. "C'mon, then," Peter urged. "Let's find you a horse."

"Oh, thank you again Your Highness," Zoya offered, trotting along just behind them.

"You know," the High King said with a simple smile. "You're more than welcome to call me Peter." Zoya smiled in return.

"If it is your will, then may it be," Zoya replied. "Peter."

"Do you know how to ride?" Peter questioned as he and Zoya entered the marvelous barn, and Edmund went to fetch Philip from the field.

"I'm fair," Zoya replied. "Just don't put me on anything too wild." Peter smiled taking a leather-bound nose loop off a delicate brass hook on the wall.

"Why don't we put you on Tamar over here," he offered, opening a stall door and smooching to the horse to coax her out. She was a medium-sized horse, honey brown with cream on her brow and rump, offset by even paler spots.

"She's gorgeous," Zoya offered in awe as he gently placed the leather loop over the horse's nose. She ran her fingers through the horse's pale mane, and pet her just under her jaw line.

"Let's get you up," Peter offered, finally, binging over an oaken mounting block. "Step up," he instructed. She did so awkwardly, lacing her fingers with the horse's mane. "Now give me your foot," he continued, bending over, reaching for her ankle.

"My foot," she clarified, placing her left ankle in his grasp.

"Ready," he prepared her. "One—" In one swift motion Zoya pulled herself up, and Peter had to struggle to support her. He laughed, "Wasn't sure what number we were going on..."

"Sorry," Zoya offered with an embarrassed smile.

"No matter," he offered, retrieving the stepping block, moving over to his own sorrel-brown stallion—a tall, proud creature, strong and beautiful.

He stood up on the mounting block and had to struggle a few moments to pull himself up onto the horse's back, and then into a sitting position. Zoya couldn't help but laugh as he composed himself and gathered his reigns.

"You think that's funny?" He asked, Zoya couldn't help but smile, so instead covered her mouth.

"Is that why they call you King Peter the Magnificent, instead of King Peter the Graceful?" She questioned. Peter rolled his eyes.

"Is that what they'd call you, if you became queen?" He asked her. "Queen Zoya the Graceful." Zoya found the very notion absurd.

"I think if I became queen," she answered with a wry smile. "They would have to call me Queen Zoya, the Very Lucky." Peter shrugged.

"You never know," he offered.

"Are we going or not!" They found themselves interrupted by Edmund at the barn door. He was already settled into his saddle and prepared to start off.

"Let's go," Peter agreed, and the trio started off towards the woods.

As they rode, Peter was eager to offer an active commentary on the kinds of trees and flowers, and many of the stories behind them. A few hours passed without much in the way of hunting. But to Zoya, and seemingly Peter, it was time well spent, unfortunately Edmund did not seem to agree. Still several hours passed without incident.

"Haven't seen much game yet today," Peter observed offhandedly. Edmund growled, looking back from his position just ahead of his companions.

"I wonder why, with you two chatting back there," he noted.

"There, what's that," Peter started, pointing to a small creature tangled in some of the brambles up ahead.

"It's a doe," Zoya noted fondly, "Look, she's still got spots on her...it's just a baby."

"I'll take care of it," Edmund announced flourishingly pulling his knife from his belt.

"Oh no," Zoya protested weakly.

"Come on, Ed," Peter interrupted sternly. "There's no honor in killing a helpless doe." Edmund sulked, thrusting the long dagger back into its sheath as Zoya carefully slid off her horse. Peter soon followed, but stayed a good distance back.

She approached the trapped creature making soft shushing noises to keep her calm. The doe bleated and struggled as she approached; only managing to become more ensnared. Zoya knelt down, gathering the small fawn into her skirts and untangled her long legs from the thorny green briars.

The fawn bleated and licked her fingers where some of the syrup from that morning's breakfast still lingered, as Zoya set the baby deer back on her feet and sent her on her way.

"That's remarkable," Peter supplied at length.

"I thought we were going hunting," Edmund interrupted before turning his horse around and galloping off.

"Ed, wait!" Peter called, going to run after him, but stopping finally with a defeated sigh.

"I'm sorry," Zoya announced awkwardly. "I've ruined your hunting trip."

"It's not your fault," Peter assured her kindly. "C'mon," he instructed. "We should probably walk the horses down a bit before we head back."

"Alright," Zoya agreed, gathering her horse's reigns and starting off behind Peter.

The traveled a little deeper into the woods, and as the sun rose higher in the sky and shone through the green leaves like stained glass it began to get hotter and more humid. And although they wouldn't say it, both parties were starting to feel the effects of the noontime heat.

But soon the trail they walked opened up into a clearing where a small, quiet waterfall pouring into a basin of rocks had formed a deep pool in the woods.

"What's this place called?" Zoya asked, looking around in wonderment. Peter shook his head.

"I didn't know this was here…Where are you going?" Peter asked as Zoya dropped her horse's reigns and started to pick her way carefully down the hill to the rock ledge over the pool.

"For a swim," she called back, holing onto the trunk of one of the birch trees sprawling in the moist soil down the hill. "You should join me."

"We don't even have any bathing clothes," he replied with a laugh, dropping the reigns of his own horse in spite of himself. Zoya shrugged.

"We don't need them," she assured him simply.

"Surely you don't intend to go swimming in that dress," he reminded her. "You'll drown yourself." And Zoya smiled to herself.

"That's why I don't intend to go swimming in this dress," she answered, setting herself on a rock and stripping off her sandals.

"Well if you don't intend to swim in your dress…and we have no bathing clothes," Peter reasoned aloud. "Good gracious woman!" He exclaimed, hands flying to cover his eyes as Zoya's hands moved to the laces on the back of her dress.

"Don't be so prudent," she teased lightly, continuing what she was doing.

"I'm the King of Narnia," Peter returned forcefully. "I'll be prudent whenever I bloody well please!" Zoya laughed slipping into the water.

"I'm in up past my chest," she offered at length. "It's safe to look…" Peter slowly uncovered his eyes to find Zoya floating lazily in the murky water. "Come on in," she suggested sweetly. "It's quite refreshing."

"Thank you no, I'll just wait here 'til your through," he offered, turning around awkwardly.

"And you not hot and sweat soaked," she teased seductively. "Wouldn't a nice dip be just what you need?" Peter growled in frustration, turning back around starting to make his way over to the edge of the water.

"If Susan were here she'd murder me," he announced. Zoya laughed, clapping her hands proudly.

"Then it's a good thing Susan isn't here," she replied. "Here I'll even close my eyes while you get undressed." She placed her slender hands over her eyes, smiling uncontrollably as he came to join her.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Peter groaned even as he as stripping off his cloths on his way down the hill. "Just you wait…any minute now; some courtier is going to burst out of those bushes. And then were will we be? In a fine mess, I tell you."

He hardly made a splash sliding off the smooth rock into the water and Zoya had not noticed his entrance. So he stealthily picked his way over to her, and then forced her head under the water, if only for an instant.

Zoya gasped, surfacing again, before throwing her hair off her face.

"Peter!" She snapped, scooping a massive amount of water into his face. He coughed and sputtered, as she swam off towards the waterfall.

"I'll get you for that, you little hellion," He warned, chasing after her. She ducked under the falls, and set herself down on a ledge in the rock face and pulled her knees up to her chest, still chin deep in the brownish water.

Peter followed her under, settling himself down on the same ledge. He could only watch as Zoya reached out, smiling letting the water run through her fingers until they seemed to mesh with the jeweled glow of the sun.

The two had climbed out of the water at length, after hours of laughing and playing, and went their separate ways to dry and dress. Zoya had a dark stripe down her back from her soaking wet hair, but she didn't mind, it kept her cool as she went to meet Peter where they had left the horses.

She arrived to find Peter with his sword drawn. He turned to her, and pressed a finder to his lips motioning through the woods.

Zoya followed his gaze to where a large she wolf stood, sniffing through the grasses and leaves, not really paying attention to them. She had a thick coat with shades of cream, gray, and pale browns. Peter was trying to sneak up from behind her.

"Peter no!" Zoya yelled loudly, alerting the wolf, sending her fleeing through the woods.

"That's no harmless doe, Zoya," he rebuked her.

"I don't care," she returned, holding him to keep him from going after the wolf.

"It's a wolf, Zoya," Peter insisted. "It'd kill your precious deer as soon as look at her."

"Only because she doesn't know any better," Zoya returned pulling him back into her. "Animals have to kill to eat, to survive; they're only dangerous to people when we get in their way." Peter sighed, sheathing his sword.

"Let's go home," he offered.

The rode in silence for a good time before Zoya spoke up.

"I'm sorry I ruined your hunting trip," she offered apologetically.

"You didn't ruin anything," Peter assured her sweetly.

"I did," she answered. "I chased your brother away, I stopped you—"

"It's alright," he assured her. "I actually had a nice time with you." Zoya smiled because she was glad.

"I had a nice time with you too," she answered.


	7. Chapter 7

"Peter!" The young king stopped and grimaced, hearing his sister calling him. "What in the name of Aslan did you do to Edmund?"

"What are you talking about, Susan?" Peter asked haggardly.

"You tell me that you're going be hunting all morning, so I decide to give some of the guests a tour of the castle," Susan explained. "When Edmund bursts in, doesn't say a word, just storms up to his room and slams the door."

"Well did you ask him what's wrong?" Peter questioned.

"No I did not ask him what's wrong! You broke it, now you are going to go fix it!" Susan ordered. "And why are you wet?"

"I went for a swim," Peter answered simply.

"A swim!" Exclaimed Susan feverishly. "For goodness sakes Peter—"

"I'll talk to Ed," Peter agreed speedily, before heading off up the grand stairwell.

He came to the younger boy's door and knocked lightly. There was no answer, so he pushed the door open slowly. Edmund was lying on his bed, staring into space, upon noticing his brother in the room; he promptly rolled over, burying his face in a satin shroud pillow.

"Ed," Peter rebuked gently, approaching the younger boy's bed. Edmund responding by grabbing another pillow, to cover his head with. "Edmund…You're being unreasonable."

"And you're being selfish Peter," Edmund returned angrily. "It was supposed to our day out, just you and me, and you had to go and invite that conniving Jezebel."

"Edmund that's not fair."

"No! You're not fair Peter," Edmund insisted. "All you do is criticize me…and I'm sick and tired of it!" Peter sighed heavily as Edmund buried himself deeper under the covers of his bed.

"I know I'm hard on you," Peter admitted softly. "And I know it doesn't seem right, but you've got to understand, you're my second in command. I have to ask a lot of you. Because if anything should happen to me, Ed, you'd be the one who'd have to take care of Susan and Lucy. You know that—don't you? They couldn't defend Cair Paravel without you."

"But nothings going to happen to you," Edmund began solemnly. "Will it Peter?"

"I hope not," Peter answered lightly. "Come on, let's do something fun, just the two of us. How about a nice, friendly sparing match?"

"You don't really expect me to fall for that do you, Peter," Edmund started up. "I know better than to expect you to be friendly with a sword in hand." Peter laughed.

"That's enough talk," he instructed, pulling his brother up. "Let's go."

The two fought vigorously out on the lawn, quite evenly pitted against one another. Many diplomats could not help but take passing glances as the clash of metal on metal echoed through the court yard.

As the fight progressed, the two ended up rolling in the grass like lion cubs at play. Peter laughed as Edmund finally managed to pin him to the ground, and after a quick moment to gather his breath he managed to roll him off onto the grass. They laughed together, still partially entwined.

"I love you, Ed," Peter announced finally between his soft pants of breath. "And I could never say that enough."

"I know," replied Edmund. "I love you too, Peter, even if you can be a royal pain sometimes." Peter laughed whole heartedly, before turning over to tickle his younger brother, and the game went on.

***

That night, the dinner-time entertainment was much more conservative—a middle-aged woman with an operatic voice sang an emotional soliloquy. Peter searched long and hard for the familiar cherubic face and a tangled mess of copper-tinged dark hair. He became so distracted that he didn't even know how much time had gone by until he noticed Lucy had once again gone missing.

"Have you seen Lucy," he asked, leaning over to Edmund. The younger monarch shook his head. Peter hurried to find the older of his two sisters.

"Susan, have you seen Lucy?" He inquired, catching her attention with a hand on her arm. Susan sighed.

"Peter not again," she groaned. "You'd better go find her before she gets herself into trouble." Peter nodded.

He hurried to Lucy's room, to find she wasn't there. He had to stop and think to himself: 'If I were Lucy...and I was bored out of my mind, where would I go?' And then it came to him, and he started off in the direction of the servant's quarters.

He came into the small hall where many of the servants were having dinner, to find it overflowing with music and motion. Zoya was not hard to find...dancing on the table top, stopping her feet and swishing her skirts in time with the music. He looked, and there was Lucy, standing besides the table, gazing on intently with starry eyes.

"Lucy," he began inconspicuously coming up behind her.

"Oh, Peter," Lucy began. "I'm so glad you're here...we've been having so much fun."

"We should get back to the dinner now Lucy," he instructed gently. Taking her arm to pull her along.

"Oh why, Peter?" Lucy protested. "We're all having such a good time...this is a party. Can't we stay, Peter?"

"Yea, Peter, can't we stay?" Zoya reiterated flamboyantly, throwing herself down by the edge of the table top, and stuck her bottom lip out at him pitifully. Peter rolled his eyes at her childish behavior.

"Cute," he observed.

"Come now, High King," Zoya teased him lightly. "Come in and stay a while, have some wine, dance with a pretty girl." Peter scoffed lightly.

"Like you," he ribbed her right back with surprising ease. Zoya shrugged, raising her eyebrows at him.

"Who knows?" She offered easily. Peter sighed humorously. "Just stay for some wine," Zoya suggested. "After all, it is yours...." Peter laughed as she motioned to one of the young men to toss over a mason jar filled with dark purple liquor. She caught it to her chest with two hands and popped the lid off, handing the jar over to him.

"Susan is going to murder me," Peter decided, taking a long drink from the jar. Zoya applauded him teasingly.

"Then it is a good thing that Susan is not here," she announced with a wink. "C'mon, let's dance."

Zoya pulled him up onto the table and loosened his collar for him as the musicians played their pipes and fiddles. Several couples arranged themselves, and curtsies and bows were exchanged. They twirled and spun, exchanging partners, moving in a flowing pattern amongst each other. They all drank, and laughed, and fell on each others' necks jovially.

Lucy watched with a smile as her brother twirled Zoya and spun her into him. They would stop occasionally to see that she was enjoying herself as they danced the night away.

"Peter," Zoya urged the slightly reeling monarch. "Peter, let's go take a walk…cool down." The young king giggled uncontrollably as they started down the hallway.

"Now that was a party," he announced. Zoya laughed, placing a hand on his back.

"I'm very glad you enjoyed it," she offered. "I was quite afraid it wouldn't measure up to one of your grand balls."

"Oh, it was so much better…no forced smiles, or stodgy conversation. Will you come to my party tomorrow…" He suggested warmly, words slightly slurred.

"I would be glad to dance at your party tomorrow," she replied.

"No…not as entertainment…as my guest," Peter corrected. "I think I'd like the company, and so would Lucy."

"Your Highness—Peter—I couldn't possibly attend your ball…" Zoya protested. "I have no gown to wear."

"Then I'll have one made for you," he answered, taking her wrist and pulling her down the hall before stopping outside one of the servants' rooms and knocking on the door. A moment later a middle aged woman in a nightdress opened the door, looking very confused.

"Your Highness," she began awkwardly. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Why yes, Glenys, if you would…" Peter answered, smiling warmly. "I'd like you to make this young woman here a fine ball gown for the ball tomorrow evening." The older woman blinked.

"Now?" She questioned. "Sire, it's well past midnight." Peter's look turned pensive.

"I suppose that won't do then," he reasoned.

"First thing tomorrow, then," Glenys suggested. "In my studio."

"Why yes, I do believe that would work," he offered. "As long as it's alright with you Zoya."

"It sounds perfect," she replied. "Thank you."

"Now you have something to wear," Peter informed her as Glenys returned to her beauty sleep.

"Peter, you know, I doubt Queen Susan would be entirely pleased with this surprise," Zoya reminded him.

"Susan's warming up to you," Peter insisted. "You must realize she likes things to be prim and proper and refined, and you're, well, not…"

"You don't thing I'm refined?" Zoya questioned accusingly. Peter shrugged innocently.

"Well no," he answered. "You're more fun…and free." Zoya frowned teasingly.

"Just you wait, Peter," she challenged. "When you see me at that party tomorrow, I will be the most refined creature you ever laid eyes on." Peter smiled.

"Then I look forward to it," he answered with an impish smile.

"Thank you once again, Peter." Zoya offered finally. "Good night, sweet dreams."

"Sweet dreams," he repeated, watching as she made her way back to her dorm.


	8. Chapter 8

The clip-clip of Susan's heels on the stone floor echoed through the halls as the voices of the servants hushed with her passing. Despite the gossips' best efforts she managed to gather bits and pieces of their whispers:

"…out all night…"

"…stumbled in…"

"…absolutely drunk…"

"…still asleep…"

Susan yanked open the door to her brother's suit and let it slam behind her as she marched through the sitting room to his bedchamber. She pushed the door open, and paced over to his bed ripping the curtains open violently.

"What, in the name of Aslan, do you think you're doing?!" She yelled accusingly. Peter groaned, rolling over, shielding his eyes from the bright light. "How dare you!"

"Could you please stop screaming," Peter pleaded groggily.

"Why, you're hung-over," Susan observed in distaste. "I can't believe you! You leave your own ball, and stay out past midnight, drinking with a rowdy crowd of servants! What gives you the right, Peter? What gives you the right?"

"The fact that I'm king," he supplied tiredly. "Now if you don't mind I'd like to go back to bed."

"Oh no you don't," Susan interjected, grabbing Peter by the collar of his shirt and pulling him out of bed. "You are going to get out of bed, clean yourself up…sober up, and we are going to try and salvage _some_ of the dignity of this court!" Peter groaned, trailing along behind her, whining:

"Can't I just go back to bed?"

***

The dress-maker's studio was an open round room, facing the sea, and full of light. Fabrics and other supplies seemed to be scattered haphazardly around the room.

"Well," Glenys began sweetly, motioning for Zoya to stand up on the dais in the middle of the room in her gauzy undergarments. "Let's just see what kind of fabric you'd look best in…" She took several samples of cloth off a table and brought them over, holding them up to her face and against her chest.

"I do believe the satin might outshine you a bit," she announced, tossing the first swatch away. Zoya laughed lightly. "And we can't have that, can we—and cotton's no good for a ball gown—much too warm for velvet still…" A few more scraps of cloth were cast away.

"What about this, sandlewashed silk, nice and soft, with a little bit of luster…perhaps with a crepe overskirt, it should look nice," she announced finally. "Now what color?" Glenys moved back to the table and returned with handfuls of differently colored cloth.

"Silver's a bit much, I think," Glenys noted, casting aside several pieces of fabric. "Black? Uh—not black…Plum would bring out your eyes, but I'm afraid it's too dark for your complexion. What about red, to bring out the highlights in your hair?"

"I do really like green," Zoya supplied.

"Green," Glenys pondered. "Common, yet…stylish. Plain, but…sophisticated. Conservative, elegant—I've got just the thing." The older seamstress disappeared into one of the back rooms, only to emerge several moments later with several yards of a very pure, earthy, green fabric.

"It's beautiful," Zoya observed, running her fingers over the silken fabric.

"A little gold trimming and it shall be," the other woman agreed. "Now, I'll need to take your measurements. What are you, about a thirty-eight?" Zoya's eyes narrowed.

"Thirty-eight for what?" She asked.

"Your corset," Glenys explained, routing through a chest of drawers in the corner.

"I don't plan on wearing any steel and bone, rib-crushing contraption," Zoya protested vehemently.

"Oh come now," the seamstress reasoned. "You can't exactly run unbridled through the corridors during the king's ball, can you? I won't pull it tight, and look, see how soft and pliable it is." She gathered a corset out of the drawer and bent it back and forth gently. "A special piping," she explained. "Queen Susan's design…here let's try it on you."

Glenys helped Zoya fasten the corset in the front and tied off the strings behind her.

"There, how's that, not so bad?" She questioned. Zoya nodded. "Still breathing?"

"Yes," Zoya answered with a smile.

"That's what I like to hear," Glenys teased lightly. "Takes care of that baby fat, doesn't it?" Zoya laughed, as the older woman took measurements from around her bust, waist and hips.

"I should be done by late this afternoon, you can come by my room and I'll help you get ready," Glenys offered.

"That fast," Zoya noted.

"You've got to remember I've been doing this for years," Glenys reminded her. "I am the finest seamstress in all of Narnia." And she laughed a little at herself.

"I don't doubt it…I just wanted to thank you again," she offered uneasily.

"It's my pleasure," the seamstress replied. "It's been far too long since I've made a fine gown for a **real** woman."

"I have a feeling Queen Susan wouldn't appreciate the suggestion," Zoya teased lightly.

"Queen Susan may think she's a woman…she may act like a woman—and order her siblings around as if she were their mother," Glenys explained and Zoya laughed easily. "But she does not have a woman's curves." She shrugged, "Who knows, maybe she's one of the lucky ones."

"No," Zoya offered with a wink. "We're the lucky ones."


	9. Chapter 9

Zoya had already bathed in preparation for the evening. It was midday and the dorms had all but emptied out, servants helping with preparations for the ball, or relaxing in the courtyards outside. She was wrapped in a long robe, with her hair pulled up in a towel as she tried to sneak from the dorms of the visiting servants.

"Where do you think you're going?" A familiar male voice chimed in from behind her. Zoya spun on her heels.

"Ciaran! You scared me…" She breathed a sigh of relief. "I was just going for a walk."

"In your underwear?" He observed critically, Zoya adjusted her robe slightly.

"Well, actually, King Peter invited me to his ball, and I was just going to get ready," she explained.

"Is that so?" He questioned, a frown plastered across his strong features as he crossed his arms over his chest. Zoya sighed in disappointment.

"Ciaran stop," she protested. "If you don't want me to go, I won't go."

"No, no go on have fun," he instructed, waving her away casually.

"Ciaran…you're being childish," she returned. "If you don't want me to go, just say so."

"Look, I just want you to be careful," he warned.

"I will be I promise," she offered, wrapping her arms around him. "I'll eat, I'll dance, I'll chat…that's all. Cross my heart." She stood on his feet to be closer to his eyelevel, laughing slightly, holding him for balance.

"I'm just saying," Ciaran warned her lovingly, rocking them back and forth slowly. "Those nobles are wolves." Zoya smiled, reaching up to tap his nose lightly; replying:

"Yes, but so am I." Ciaran smiled.

"Alright, go, get dressed," he instructed. "I'll see you tonight." Zoya laughed, standing up on her tip-toes to offer him a light kiss on the lips.

Zoya knocked on Glenys's door and waited outside nervously. A moment later the older woman answered and welcomed her in.

All around the room there were stuffed mannequins draped in the finest clothes you could ever imagine. Long dresses with full skirts and artistically embroidered tunics and dress slacks; Zoya ran her fingers of the skirt of a navy charmeuse and crepe dress.

"Oh dear," she observed worriedly. "I hope you didn't make such an elegant dress for me. I could never do it justice."

"That's why I'm here," Glenys offered sweetly. "C'mon, let's get your hair done."

Glenys had her sit down at the vanity and twisted some of her hair into a bridal plait. She starched curls into the hair that hung loose and pinned them up on the crown of her head, letting only a few, fat, bouncing curls hang loose by her temples and down her back.

"You're very good at this," Zoya observed. "Do you have a daughter?"

"I do," the older woman replied. "She lives out west with her husband—a huntsman from the untamed wilds." Zoya smiled thoughtfully.

"She wasn't fond of palace life then," she reasoned.

"No," Glenys replied somberly. "She loved palace life; it was me she couldn't stand."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Zoya offered uneasily. Glenys smiled.

"Don't worry yourself," she instructed, routing through one of the vanity drawers casually. "Tonight is your night to shine…Let's get your makeup done."

"Makeup?" Zoya questioned apprehensively. "Why would anyone want to cover up their natural beauty?"

"You see, we don't cover up natural beauty," Glenys explained. "We enhance it: a little shadow to bring out your eyes…A hint of blush to outline those graceful cheekbones of yours…some pale lipstick…and a dash of fairy dust," Zoya laughed as Glenys sprinkled a handful of shining, pearlescent dust over her head. "For that youthful glow…And voila! See, I've got you covered honey." Zoya nodded in agreement.

"Now, would you like to see your dress?" Glenys asked craftily.

"Oh very much, yes," Zoya replied excitedly. Glenys motioned her up, over to where there was a blanket laid across the floor.

"Alright now stand here, and close your eyes," she instructed. "And don't open them until I say, or I'm going to take your dress away and you'll go to the ball in your undergarments."

"You can't be serious," Zoya laughed.

"I'm very serious," Glenys insisted, now shut your eyes. Zoya did so.

Glenys brought the dress out of the closet, and laid it down on the blanket and helped Zoya step into it. She pulled it up over her, straightening the seams, and tying off the golden strings at the back.

"Can I open my eyes now?" Zoya asked.

"Not yet," Glenys warned, directing her over to the full length mirror, standing her in front of it. "Now." Zoya's eyes fluttered open,

"Oh my God!"


	10. Chapter 10

Peter searched among the guests in the antechamber with an oakwood box in his hand. He was peering around bodies and over heads of the people waiting to have their entrance to the dining hall announced when someone bumped into him.

"Excuse me."

"Zoya!" He started up, his mild anxiety relieved. "There you are—You look...stunning!" Her dress had a sweetheart neckline, accented with gold thread, and capped sleeves, with long layers of gossamer draped over her arms, opening up and flowing long past her wrists. The same sheer crepe was draped from the Basque waistline, and opened slightly in the center, revealing some of the gold floral embroidery and hemline. The semi-full skirt had a slight chapel train.

"Although, I can't help but notice how lonely your sweet little neck looks," he observed teasingly. Zoya rolled her eyes.

"Cute, Peter," she rebutted. "What are you getting at?"

"Glenys told me you were wearing green, so I picked this out," he replied, indicating the box in his hands. "It's something of Susan's…it doesn't suit her—she never wears it." He opened the box revealing the long gold strings of draped, black pearls, accented at their crisscrosses by solitaire emeralds.

"I couldn't possibly," she protested.

"Please do," he insisted, even as he moved behind her to fasten it around her neck. "Best to get some use out of it don't you thing?"

"I'm going to loose it or something," she protested.

"I want you to keep it," he added.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly—"

"I wasn't sure if your ears were pierced, so I brought the matching earrings just in case," he continued, cutting her off, holding out a pair of teardrop, black pearl earrings.

"This is really too much," she reasoned didactically, taking the earrings from him. Peter shrugged.

"I'll see you inside," he told her friendlily. "You're sitting next to me at dinner."

"See you soon," she agreed as he hurried off to sneak back inside the dining hall.

The heralds at the grand door announced everyone's arrival in turn. Zoya was one of the last ones inside.

"And how may I introduce you?" The herald asked at the grand entranceway, draped with crimson gauze.

"Me?" Zoya looked surprised. "Uh…Zoya bint Tara—formerly of Ione." The herald scoffed.

"Can't you at least give me a challenge," he reasoned, before turning back to the dinner guests and announcing: "Presenting, the daughter of Tara—the daughter of the former countess of Ione, the pearl of the Great Eastern Ocean, lost treasure of the Seven Isles—Lady Zoya." Zoya's brow arched.

"You just made that up," she challenged. The herald shook his head.

"Whatever, just get in there," he instructed, pushing her past the gossamer curtain into the dinning hall.

The first hour or so was reserved for casual socializing and nibbling on hors d'oeuvres. Nobles were gathered around the dining hall and the antechamber leading into it as Zoya's entrance was announced. Peter could scarcely contain his laughter at the elaborate introduction, even as every head turned to Zoya's entrance.

Zoya paced carefully down the corridor, even as gazes quickly averted and whispers urgently hushed with her passing. She searched the crowd restlessly for a familiar face. She finally spotted a familiar faun among the masses of diplomats.

"Mr. Tumnus," she hissed softly, taking hold of his arm. "I don't understand. Why is everyone staring at me?"

"Because," replied Mr. Tumnus gently. "You look absolutely, drop-dead gorgeous…now you had better strut down there like you are queen of the world, or the Calormene nobility are going to eat you alive."

"I didn't know it was going to be so hard," Zoya admitted weakly, touching one hand to her brow. "This is not me…I don't think I can do this…"

"Of course you can," Mr. Tumnus reminded her. "All you have to do is sit back, relax, and let yourself be the talk of the party. C'mon, I'll take you." He offered her an arm and she gratefully took it and they made their way into the dining area.

Peter pulled Zoya's chair out for her as she approached.

"Here, have a seat a moment," he offered. She nodded gratefully, relinquishing her hold on Mr. Tumnus's arm, gathering up her skirts to take a seat. "This is for you," he offered her a small booklet on a string.

"What is it?" She asked curiously, going to flip through it.

"It's your dance card," he explained. "There's a line for every song they'll play tonight. You go around before the dance and all the men sign it so that they can dance with you. I've already signed it."

"Peter!" She laughed suddenly. "You've filled practically every other line!" Peter shrugged.

"I thought it was only fair to give the other men a chance," he teased lightly. Zoya suddenly felt the booklet being lifted out of her hand and turned to look over her shoulder to find Mr. Tumnus scribbling his name down on one of the lines. She smiled as he handed the small pamphlet back to her.

"Thank you," she began.

"Is that one Zoya's?" Edmund asked. "Let me sign it…If you don't mind, that is, Zoya." Her smile grew wider still.

"For you, Edmund, anything," she offered warmly as he scratched his name down with a small pencil.

"Where are Susan and Lucy?" Peter inquired of his younger brother.

"Just there," Edmund pointed to a group of ladies congregating in one corner.

"Well," Peter began, offering Zoya his arm. "Shall we?" Zoya let her eyes roll up into her head as she rose to her feet and linked her arm with his.

"Why not?" She reasoned cheerily. "I'm about as ready as I'll ever be."

Peter cleared his throat as they approached the group. The ladies gave one final lighthearted laugh before their conversation ended. A few of t he women gathered there covered their faces with delicate fans, hiding smiles and giggles.

"Hello ladies," Peter offered politely, and that was when Susan noticed the arm linked with her brother's, and the woman it was attached to. She blinked.

"Zoya?" Her tone was one of disbelief. "You look so… elegant." Zoya blushed.

"How many names do you have in your book, Zoya?" Lucy asked affably.

"Three so far," Zoya replied.

"Susan, what are you doing?" Edmund finally asked, noticing his sister holding her wrist under her nose.

"It's this perfume that Prince Rabadash gave me," she explained.

"He gave you perfume," Peter fumed, "Without asking me?" However, he was ignored.

"It smells so lovely, but I just can't figure out what it is," Susan elaborated.

"May I?" Zoya asked, reaching for Susan's wrist, Susan nodded, and Zoya leaned over to smell it.

"I know what that is," she announced immediately. "Patchouli—with a little rosewater, I think—it's said to be the ideal aphrodisiac because it stimulates relaxed feelings of fondness without inducing drowsiness." Susan's face blanched. Edmund stared at Zoya in shock.

"He's giving you aphrodisiacs!" Peter fumed. "That is it!"

"Peter calm down," Zoya urged gently. "It's probably just cultural." Peter would have none of it:

"First the jewelry and now this!"

"What jewelry?" Susan asked curiously. Peter's mouth hung half-open.

"Uh…never mind…" Peter fumbled unevenly.

"Hello ladies," a deep voice interrupted. "King Peter…King Edmund." They turned to find a pair of robust, dark-skinned, dark-haired men upon them.

"Prince Rabadash," (and presumably his guard or advisor) Peter's eyes narrowed.

"Queen Susan," the prince went on. "You look lovely this evening." He moved to kiss her hand. Susan's nose turned up ever so slightly even as Peter moved to take a step toward the man. Zoya put a hand on his chest to hold him back.

"I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met," Rabadash offered, turning his sights on her. "Lady…"

"Zoya," she replied softly, her glance hard. Just then a pair of cornet players at the entrance of the hall sounded a fanfare.

"I do believe that's the signal for dinner," Peter offered, on edge. He once again took Zoya's arm and hurried back towards their seats at the dinner table.

Zoya sat beside Peter at the table and touched one of the pearls around her neck. Black pearls. Native to the coast of Calormen. She could accept charity. But she wouldn't be used as a landfill for the unwelcome gifts of Susan's contemptible suitors. And then Peter reached for her hand, and squeezed it gently.

"Everything alright," he questioned as they waited to be served. Zoya looked around the table. Something was missing.

"Where is Lady Oilell?" She questioned. "And the baron."

"I'm afraid the Duchess has developed a slight stomach flu," Peter offered. "As for Bearach, your guess it as good as mine." Zoya felt daunted a moment, but soon recovered.

Servants went around pouring fragrant honeyed wine into every glass and both Zoya and Peter ended up reaching for the gold cup between them at the same moment, his hand landing on top of hers. They smiled at one another before he gave her hand a little squeeze before withdrawing his hand to let her take a sip of wine.

"It's good," she observed handing the cup back to him. He laughed, taking a small sip.

"You're not trying that again are you?" He teased gently. "Because if I end up getting drunk again, Susan will absolutely flip her wig." Zoya laughed nervously.

"She knows I had something to do with that then?" She reasoned worriedly. Peter laughed.

"Oh, she suspects," he explained. Zoya clenched her jaw in a nervous frown. "But I think seeing you like this is beginning to reshape her opinion of you," he explained.

"How can you tell," she asked with genuine curiosity.

"Because," he whispered, leaning into her ear. "None of the gossip regarding the striking young woman on the king's arm this evening has involved a coryphée dancer from Galma." Zoya's expression turned pensive.

"You mean that none of these people know who I really am?" She made to confirm. Peter nodded. "And you don't think Susan's going to tell them?" He shook his head. Zoya smiled. "This could be fun," Zoya announced with an eager smile.

Dinner was served one course at a time. First came a light salad with fresh green lettuce, spinach, and a vinegar-lemon dressing. Then a rich onion soup with cheese and fresh bread was served. The following course consisted of chilled shrimp that had been caught along the coast earlier that day. The main course that evening was roasted lamb with a hazel-nut herb crust served with garlic herb-baked potatoes, mashed carrots with a caramel glaze, grilled peppers, and green bean casserole. Mint sorbet and fresh fruit followed. Then came apple-filled pasties with tea or coffee.

After the final course was cleared away people began to wander around and socialize once more, until the dance began. And although she stayed close to Peter the whole time, Zoya soon found herself the bell of the ball.


	11. Chapter 11

Susan, Lucy, and Zoya had all filled their dance cards for the evening as they ambled about, chatting with other nobles. Susan was amazed at how polite and cultures Zoya was behaving, listening to senseless gossip, laughing quietly, only at the appropriate times.

The young monarchs were conversing with the King and Queen of Archenland when Zoya decided to slip away for a breath of fresh air. Upon her return the conversation was still in progress so, rather than interrupting them, Zoya chose to able about, ending up near a group of older women fanning themselves vigorously.

She cast a glance around the room, taking in any worthwhile observation.

"The architecture is really quite beautiful," she announced finally, inciting no response from the group of women. She waited a beat before repeating, louder this time: "The architecture is really quite beautiful, don't you think?"

"It has been for over a hundred years," replied the most wrinkled, and most painted of the group of women in distaste, giving Zoya the distinct impression that she **had** been heard the first time. "Or haven't you ever attended a ball at Cair Paravel before?" The women laughed in mechanical high-pitched chirrups. Zoya clenched her jaw. Her face burned. Her stomach dropped, one hand was clenched into a fist.

"Zoya!" Her head jerked in the direction of the summons. It was Peter; he approached them with a heart warming smile on his features. Zoya breathed a sigh of relief. "There you are, I think the ball is about to begin, we should get ready." He offered her his arm nobly.

"If you will be so kind as to excuse me ladies," Zoya bid regally, taking his arm daintily. As Peter led her away, there was nothing Zoya could do to resist the urge to look back over her shoulder at the women and wink haughtily, cherishing their astounded expressions.

It was tradition for the four monarchs to begin the dance. The four couples stood in an open position as the band struck up the opening chords of a lavolta. Peter stood with Zoya, Lucy with Mr. Tumnus, Edmund with a young noblewoman of Archenland, and Susan with none other than Prince Rabadash. Peter cast the latter couple a dirty glance. Zoya seized his chin and maneuvered it back in her direction as the dance began.

During the first two bars of twelve, the couples were supposed to move into a closed position.

"Zoya, are you wearing a corset?" Peter asked urgently in a hushed whisper.

"Why yes, actually, I am," she answered, her brow furrowing. "Why do you ask?" At the appropriate beat he grabbed the bask of her corset with one hand and placed his over on her opposite hip, hoisting her into the air, turning them three quarters of the way around. Zoya gasped as he set her back down as their audience clapped politely.

She cast a glance to the couple opposite them, where Mr. Tumnus was finding that lifting Lucy was easier said than done. Susan and Edmund however had thankfully escaped the lift unscathed. After two more bars the lift was repeated, although Lucy and Mr. Tumnus settled for a little spin, _en terre_.

After a few more lifts and dips and spins the song came to an end and the other guests began to fill the floor. Everyone switched partners and moved into lines as the orchestra began to play a light-hearted pastoral.

The dance continued like that for several hours with everyone generally having a good time. When there was finally a break in the music, Zoya and Peter moved to have a seat on one of the comfortable sofas around the perimeter of the room.

"I'm so hot," Peter announced breathlessly. "I'm going to take a step outside for some fresh air, would you like a drink while I'm up?"

"Thank you no," she replied, waving him off pleasantly.

Peter took a step out into the night and leaned against the garden wall, letting a cool breeze of the sea blow his hair off his face. After a moment he began to move through the gardens, taking in the beauty of the flowers in the pale moonlight. At length he heard a rustling in the bushes and shot to attention.

"Who's there?" He demanded firmly. The lion stepped out of the underbrush, his golden head shining through the shadows. "Aslan!" Peter exclaimed. "I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting you. When did you get here?"

"Just now," the lion explained. "Have you enjoyed your party so far?"

"Yes, very much so," answered Peter genuinely. "Susan did a wonderful job…" Aslan seemed to smile a knowing sort of lion-smile.

"Something tells me that is not why you've been so happy, Son of Adam," Aslan stated keenly. "What has been on your mind as of late?" Peter sighed lightly, before replying:

"I think I'm falling in love…"

***

Zoya was still sitting on the same couch when Lucy plunked down besides her. The young girl's formerly pristine hair was mussed and she was smiling broadly.

"Hello Zoya," Lucy offered sweetly. "Why are you sitting all alone?"

"I'm just waiting for your brother," Zoya explained with a smile.

"You've been spending a lot of time with my brother," Lucy observed. Zoya smiled.

"I'm fond of your brother," she explained carefully. "He's very kind—I think we could get to be good friends, just like you and I." Lucy seemed to eye her critically.

"Do ever think the two of you could be more than friends?" Lucy pondered. Zoya wrinkled her nose slightly.

"I don't think so Lucy," she answered, draping one arm around the smaller girl. "We're from two different worlds, your brother and I. Your brother is very special…he should have to marry a very special girl…" Lucy frowned slightly.

"But—But if he asked you to stay, here at Cair Paravel—with us, would you?" She pressed somewhat urgently. Zoya sighed.

"I don't thing I could Lucy," she answered sadly. "You see…I guess it's alright that I tell you—with us being friends and all…you see, I'm going to be married in the spring, to an old sweetheart of mine."

"So, I suppose you'll be very happy then," Lucy reasoned, looking slightly aggrieved. Zoya nodded with a sad smile.

"I expect I will be," she answered practically. "But chin up Lucy, we'll always be friends." Lucy smiled finally. "Come now," Zoya suggested. "Let's have a dance before your brother returns."

***

"In love?" Aslan repeated sagely, moving to Peter's side. "What is she like?"

"Well," Peter began unsurely. "She's just…wonderful. She's kind…she's good. She doesn't judge. I feel like I could tell her anything, and she'd just understand. She's a lot smarter than I am, although I don't think she wants to let on that she is—sometimes she's got this look in her eyes that's just so…intelligent, but she never says what she's thinking. And she's got this beautiful, angelic…presence, like…" He paused and laughed. "Grace." Aslan nodded.

"She sounds like a remarkable young woman. Have you considered yet, how you love her?" Peter's brow furrowed.

"What do you mean?" He pondered. Aslan sat, looking up at the young king, tail swishing back and forth lazily.

"You see, Peter, there are many kinds of love," the great lion clarified. "There is the love that you have for your family—a natural love, the kind you seem to be born with, and there is the love that you have for your people—your desire to protect them, and see them prosper; there is love between friends—enjoying their company, and having a sense of loyalty them, and there is also a special love that can develop between a man and a woman—a romantic love and physical desire. And then there is a love that is completely pure, completely selfless…do you understand." Peter nodded tentatively.

"Like the love you have for us," he reasoned, motioning back towards the castle. Aslan's eyes seemed to light up and he nodded his golden head.

"It is," he agreed. "You see this is the love from which all else springs. Do you think you have this love for one another?"

"I don't know…" Peter answered cautiously. "Maybe. I like being with her, and…I find her very beautiful. She can get me to do just about anything—just because she's got this warmth and innocence"

"If you feel that way, you should tell her so," Aslan suggested. Peter nodded, and then shook his head.

"I don't think I can," he protested. "It's just—I'm not sure—you see, sometimes when I'm with her I don't think about anything else. Not myself…not Narnia…not Ed and Su—or Lucy even, and it scares me...is that bad of me?" Once again, the corners of Aslan's lion mouth seemed to tilt up into a grin as he replied,

"That is love."


	12. Chapter 12

Peter found Zoya dancing with his younger sister. He watched her smiling, laughing, moving with the music. Lucy looked like she was having the most fun in the world. It was reassuring, almost, to see them getting along so well.

"Hey Lu," he interrupted their merrymaking reluctantly. "Would you mind if I borrowed Zoya for a minute?" Lucy nodded, relinquishing her dance partner. "Would you mind coming outside with me a moment?'" Zoya nodded following him onto the patio.

They sat together on the marble dividing wall.

"What did you need me for?" She questioned him curiously. Peter shrugged nervously.

"Nothing in particular," he began. "I just wanted a moment alone with you." Zoya blinked.

"We're alone," she announced, noticeably scanning the garden. "What's next?" He laughed, moving just a little closer to her.

"We can just sit together," he suggested. "Or talk, if you want…" Zoya shrugged; they sat in silence.

"I like you Zoya," Peter announced enthusiastically, at length. Zoya's eyes shifted in his direction.

"Thanks," she replied simply, somewhat taken aback. "I like you too Peter…but might I ask exactly what is it that you like about me…and why it requires an announcement?"

"I like everything about you," he answered. "I like the way you laugh…and how you live your life so vigorously, and the fact that you don't care what anyone else thinks…I like the way you dance, how you pour your heart and soul into it…I like how we're friends…and how your eyes seem to change color when the light hits them just right." Zoya grinned mischievously.

"What's your favorite thing about me?" She questioned. "Truthfully." Peter had to stop and think a moment.

"I love your smile," he answered.

"What about it?" She pressed urgently. "Why?"

"I love everything about it?" He reasoned. "I love how your lips curl up so gracefully, and that little space between your two front teeth, how it makes your eyes glitter and your nose wrinkle just a little. And I love it because it comes so easy to you, because you can smile all the time." He paused before he turned the question around.

"What's your favorite thing about me?" He asked. Zoya didn't have to think.

"Your eyes," she answered earnestly. "Because the make me think of my father…"

"I look like your father?" He questioned. Zoya shook her head.

"No, you look nothing like him, in fact," she explained. "But your eyes…eyes like the sea after a summer storm—they remind me of him.

"You see, before my father met my mother, he was the foretop-man on a ship called _Gossamer_—and that is a hard job, one that requires balance, one that very tiring, to do it well you must be very strong and very brave—and my father did it well, he never complained, and everyone loved him, and he loved the sea. But when he met my mother and they had me he left the _Gossamer_ and stayed with us in a stone cottage in the woods of Ione.

"After my mother died, he couldn't stand the woods anymore…they reminded him too much of her. We were never alike in that way, when he grieved he only wanted to forget, to be strong. I like being reminded of my parents, we shared so many happy memories…I could never want to forget that.

"So my father and I lived on this ship for several years, and we were very happy. Well one night there was a storm…and my father wrapped me up in his warm coat like he always did when bad weather rolled in, and he took me below deck, and he tucked me in, and I could smell him and I felt safe and went to sleep. It was a very bad storm. Some time in the night the ship was destroyed, hit by lightning, tossed about in the surf, I'm not sure; I don't remember much about that night. For weeks afterward the bodies, and wreckage were washed ashore in the isles—Galma, Terebinthia—as far as I know I was the only one still alive."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he began compassionately.

"Don't be," she answered firmly. "Besides, I still have hope."

"You think that your father survived the shipwreck?" Peter questioned curiously. Zoya shrugged, seeming rather indifferent to the suggestion.

"I think that if anyone could have survived the swim to shore, it was my father," she stated steadfastly. Peter nodded.

"I know that hope can get to be a painful thing at times, after so long," he offered comfortingly, placing one arm around her back.

"Yes," Zoya agreed with a slight nod. "But it is still hope." They sat a moment in silence before Zoya hopped down from the marble wall.

"Let's go back inside," she suggested. He held her wrist gently.

"Can I just say one more thing," he pressed urgently. There was a pause in the conversation. She looked into his summer-storm eyes, finding something there that she couldn't quite grasp.

Peter closed the space between them, not consciously, but suddenly his lips were pressed to hers. Her hot breath was against his skin. His arms pulled her close, her hands found his face. Eyes snapped shut on reflex. But after the shock had subsided, Zoya's fluttered open in distress, scanning the garden veranda uneasily.

She pushed him away, harder than she intended. Peter stumbled back, catching himself just before toppling over. Zoya wiped her mouth, turning away.

"I can't do this!" She announced, rushing back inside.

Peter's heart ached; he sank to the floor, letting his head fall into his hands with a groan of dejection. He didn't follow her.

***

Zoya was halfway back to her chamber in the servant's dorms before she even noticed the footsteps following her. Even then she was so involved in sorting out her befuddled emotions that she didn't realize the footfalls were far too heavy to belong to Peter, and before she knew it a drunken nobleman had a handful of her hair.

Now, Zoya would not describe herself as an athletic person, but still, she was no delicate flower, and could do enough damage when necessary.

She cried out, grabbing the man's hand, digging her thick nails into his fleshy hand as hard as she could, pulling it away from her head, and pulling out some of her hair in the process. She threw her elbow back into him as hard as she could and ran, screaming down the deserted hall. She didn't think he would follow her, but he did, shouting obscenities at her, words she was too scared to notice. He was fast, for slobbering-drunk diplomat, and powerful.

The next thing Zoya knew he had her wrist. Her body was slammed against the wall and then hit the floor. As her head hit marble there was only one thought going through her mind: she had to make as much noise as possible.

_She was twelve again. Back on the ship again, down in the bunk she shared with daddy. It was noisy above deck; men yelling, men hitting. She was crying. Daddy was there, crouched down to meet her eyes, he pulled the loose-fitting sweater closer around her and brushed the tears away, smoothing her mussed hair with one hand._

"It's alright Zoya," he urged in his thick and smooth voice; hot-chocolate voice. "Shh, Zoya I'm here—look at me." She did. "You're alright Zoya, I've got you now." Daddy hugged her close several moments, and then pulled away. Daddy's big hands were on her shoulders, holding her at arm's length. Daddy's black eyes stared intently into hers.

"Yell at me, Zoya," He instructed, she closed her eyes, and shook her head. Her throat ached from crying. "I need you to scream at me Zoya." Daddy pressed urgently. Zoya screamed and cried stomping her feet on the wooden floor. Daddy shook her gently.

"Tell me 'No'," he urged her.

"No," repeated Zoya.

"Yell it," he told her again. "Again and again."

"NO!" She screamed as loud as she could. "No! No! No!"

"Say 'Don't touch me'," he continued, holding her tight.

"NO!" Zoya screamed. "Don't touch me! Nonono! Don't you ever touch me!" Zoya pushed daddy's hands off and cried. He grabbed her and pulled her close; held her into his chest. Daddy smelled of sweat and sea salt.

"'Atta girl Zoya," daddy comforted. "That's what you've got to do. If anyone ever touches you when you don't want them to, you yell and you scream and you fight like hell and you don't stop. 'Atta girl Zoya."

_Daddy and Zoya were snuggled into bed. She was almost asleep. _Thump, thump, thump. _She heard. _Thump, thump, thump _on the walls from outside their cabin._ Thump, thump, thump _of a body being dragged along the keel. Zoya would have cried, but daddy was there. Zoya didn't have to cry when daddy was there._

But Zoya's father wasn't here now and it seemed that no one else cared. Saline tears stung at the corner of her eyes.

"Get off of her!" A man's voice commanded. Heavy footfalls rushed towards them, and the next thing Zoya knew Ciaran had pulled the man off of her. She was still trying to overcome the trauma of the situation and rolled onto one side curling slightly, shuddering and trying to catch her breath.

By the time she had composed herself and sat up, the man who had attacked her. But Ciaran was relentless, punching, kicking and beating with as much strength as he could.

"Ciaran!" She yelled, forcing herself up onto shaking legs. "Ciaran stop it!" She grabbed his arm. "Stop it, Ciaran, please!" She finally managed to pull him away.

Many of the servants had come out to see what was going on. A shout rang down the hallway as onlookers gasped and pointed, and women swooned uneasily at the sight of blood. The next footfalls Zoya heard coming down the hallway were the booted footsteps of Narnian soldiers.


	13. Chapter 13

Zoya paced the hall outside the king's bed chamber trying to gather up the courage to knock on the door. It was very early in the morning at that time and she had not slept a wink, she hadn't even changed out of her clothes from the ball that night. She bit her nails and brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, the curls had fallen long ago, but the braid around her hairline had remained mostly intact.

She finally paced to the door and knocked before giving herself time to reconsider. Several moments later Peter opened the door, only half dressed, wrapped in a scarlet robe. He looked sleepy still; grey in the light of the new morning, and very surprised to see her. Especially since she appeared more distraught than he had ever thought she could be.

"Zoya, what is it?" He asked worriedly.

"Peter," she hiccupped, one thumb nail wedged between her teeth. "Can I come in a minute? Please." He opened the door for her, usually he would have insisted upon having a chaperone present, but it seemed urged, and—after all—it was only Zoya.

"Yes," he urged motioning her in. "Have a seat, I'll get you some tea…What are you doing here? We didn't exactly part on the best of terms—I'm sorry that was an unfair position for me to put you in."

Zoya didn't answerer, she only sat, shell shocked, on the sofa across from the fire as Peter brought over a porcelain teapot and a pair of matching teacups.

"Milk?" He asked, holding out the small pitcher of cream. She gave no indication either way. "Zoya what's wrong with you?" Peter asked worriedly.

"They arrested him," she croaked and burst into tears. Peter immediately set aside the tea paraphernalia and put one arm around her tentatively.

"Arrested who? What? When?" He asked, not sure where to begin the inquest.

"Last night," she went on. "They arrested Ciaran." Peter's back went up.

"What exactly did he do?" He asked. She looked contemplative for a moment. "Zoya, what did he do?"

"He beat courtier from Archenland the doctors were worried he wouldn't live," Zoya offered. Peter started up.

"He did what?!" He yelled.

"But it isn't his fault!" Zoya yelled back. "The man attacked me! He did it to protect me."

"Beat a man near to death, Zoya?" Peter reasoned.

"I know it sounds bad, Peter, but he doesn't know his own strength," Zoya insisted. "And when he can't find the words, he doesn't know a better way, and he just hits. He can't help himself. He doesn't know any better. A man attacked me in this castle, Peter, a man tried to rape me in the middle of a hallway and I screamed like the devil himself was after me, and Ciaran was the only one to come to help me!"

"So now this is my fault, is it?" Peter started up defensively.

"No, but it isn't Ciaran's," Zoya corrected him. "He doesn't deserve this."

"What exactly did you come here for?" Peter questioned.

"Isn't there something you can do to help him?" She reasoned. "Make them let him go…"

"Zoya he nearly killed a man!" Peter insisted. "A nobleman from another kingdom, Zoya, I can't make this go away!"

"You're the High King; can't you just grant him amnesty or something?" Zoya pressed.

"Zoya, there's nothing I can do, I'm sorry," he answered, feeling genuinely remorseful. A few tears fell from her eyes and she brushed them away, looking at him with the most pitiful expression he had ever seen.

"Peter," she started one last entreaty. "I wouldn't ask this of you unless it was really, really important. Peter, please, as my friend—I need you." Peter sighed regretfully. Zoya sniffed.

"Ciaran warned me about you noblemen," Zoya announced fitfully.

"Zoya," Peter started up.

"Last night," she continued, paying him no mind. "God, if I had only listened to him! I should have never gone to that stupid ball—"

"Zoya!" Peter repeated, louder this time. "Zoya, go back down stairs, go to your dorm. Wait there—stay there—make sure people _see_ you. And then meet me in the barn at midnight tonight; don't let anyone catch you out of bed." Zoya nodded, wiping the tears of relief that were dripping down her cheeks away.

She hugged him close and hurried off to do a he instructed.

***

Zoya paced back and forth in the barn like a caged animal. It seemed that Peter was taking forever and her worst fear was that something had gone wrong with his plan. She heard the barn door open and her head snapped to attention in time to see Peter and Ciaran enter the barn.

"I'll get you a horse," Peter offered, hurrying to the back of the barn as Zoya rushed to embrace her old friend.

"What's going on?" She asked worriedly without relinquishing her grip on him.

"I'm leaving," Ciaran offered, leaning over to kiss her brow.

"What?" She started up franticly. "You can't! I need you…"

"I have to," he reasoned, moving to meet Peter.

"I'll come with you then," she offered frantically hurrying after him.

"It's too dangerous for you," Ciaran warned.

"I don't care!" Zoya protested. "I want to go! This is my fault." And she cried. He grabbed her and held her tight.

"Zoya stop it," he insisted. "It's not your fault…you're going to be okay. I love you and I'll see you again." Peter had finished tacking the vigorous young stallion and motioned for Ciaran to get himself up.

Zoya kissed two of her fingers and held them out to him. He repeated the gesture, touching his fingertips to hers.

"Zoya, could you go open the barn door," Peter instructed and she went off solemnly. Ciaran turned to Peter.

"Look after her for me, will you?" He asked. "She won't understand…" Peter nodded.

"I will," he agreed. Ciaran smiled slightly.

"Zoya's not entirely right about you, you know," he offered. "She told me you were a good king…Turns out you're a good man too." Peter nodded in thanks.

"Ride north," he instructed. "You'll reach the marshes by dawn. You can lye low there until things calm down."

"Thank you again," Ciaran finished. "I'll find a way to repay you one day." Peter smiled knowingly.

"I expect you will," he answered. "You'd better hurry." Ciaran kicked the horse lightly and he took off out of the barn. Zoya stood at the door watching until he had disappeared, listening until the sound of hoof beats were out of earshot.

"Zoya," Peter called to her. "You should probably go back to your room now." And then he saw that she was crying." Peter sighed, and moved to wipe a tear off her cheek with his thumb. "You shouldn't cry," he warned. She nodded, rubbing her eyes.

"It's going to be alright," he promised hugging her gently before sending her off. Zoya ran back to the castle and snuck silently into her room and cried herself quietly to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

"Zoya! Zoya wake up!" Adele shook her gently out of sleep. Malika and a few other girls stood behind her, calling Zoya out of her fitful sleep. Zoya turned over, looking up at her friends, eyes tired and red. "Ciaran's gone," Adele explained, seemingly shocked. "He's just gone. The soldiers are off looking for him…They've been searching for hours without the slightest inclination of where he could be!"

Zoya groaned, turning over, shielding her face with the covers.

"Zoya, get up!" Adele ordered, pulling her out of bed. "None of us know what we're supposed to do!" Zoya scoffed bitterly.

"And you think I do?" She questioned sadly. At that moment there was a loud bang as Lord Bearach burst into the room, and grabbed Zoya throwing her against one wall. Several of the girls gasped, scurrying away in alarm.

"How dare you barge into a lady's bedchamber!" Malika started up in protectively.

"What did you do?" The enraged lord demanded vilely.

"She hasn't done anything!" Adele yelled. "Let her go!"

"I know you had something to do with this you little wench!" He spat. "I know the two of you were hand in glove—among other things…You helped him escape!"

"She couldn't have!" Malika insisted. "She was with us all day yesterday—me and Adele…and Roger!"

"Yea," Adele agreed. "We all went to bed around eleven I guess, and she was still here when I woke up around three to get a glass of water. She couldn't have helped Ciaran escape." Bearach clenched his jaw as his grip tightened on Zoya's shoulders; he shoved her before storming capriciously out of the room.

The three girls stood in shock, trying to recover from the outburst when the door burst open for a second time. Isi stood there in all her furious glory.

"What do you all think you are doing just standing around?!" She yelled. "We have to redo our entire routine! Get out side, we've got practice now!" And then she was gone as quickly as she had come.

***

Roger had two hands on Zoya's hips, trying to lift her off her feet. She groaned loudly, pulling free of his grip.

"You're hurting me!" She yelled.

"I'm sorry!" He returned nervously, brushing his shaggy dirty-blond hair out of his face.

"Don't be sorry just do better," Zoya snapped back irritably.

"I know I'm not as good as Ciaran was," he returned spitefully. "You don't need to tell me that. Well you know what, he's not here any more, I don't have to measure up to him!"

Zoya paled noticeably. He stood silent a beat as the other dancers looked on uncomfortably. "Zoya, I'm sorry," he started up. She began to walk away.

"Zoya come back!" Adele yelled, chased after her. Zoya waved her off.

"Leave me alone," she called back. "I don't feel like dancing anymore."

Peter stopped outside the door of Zoya's bed chamber. There was another young girl standing there, looking dejected.

"She's still upset?" He asked the young dancer. Adele nodded silently. "I wish there was something I could do for her…" Adele sighed.

"They were going to be married, you know," she said finally. "They'd been together for years…longer than I've known them." Peter's heart sank.

"Would it be alright for me to go in?" He asked her.

"With all due respect, Your Highness," Adele offered. "I don't think she's quite in the mood for visitors."

"Would it be alright for me to go in anyways?" He asked. Adele shrugged and nodded.

Peter opened the door. Zoya was in her small white bed, covers pulled up around her chin. He sat down on the edge of her bed and placed one hand on her head. Zoya turned over and looked at him with tear-swollen eyes.

"How do you feel?" He asked. She didn't answer, but instead pulled the covers up over her head.

"Zoya, please," he reasoned. "I know you're hurting, but lying around here isn't going to solve anything. Will you please come for a walk with me?" And slowly Zoya peeked out from under the covers.

The pair walked side by side through the gardens. Zoya was squinting against the unfamiliar bright light. They passed apple trees in bloom, patches of freesia and trellises draped with ivy and rose vines, and large, shady magnolia trees with their wide waxen leaves and fat, white blossoms.

"I know what I did was stupid," he began. "And I understand why you're upset with me. But I'd like it very much if we could start over and be friends." Zoya shrugged as they wandered through the gardens, finally pausing to have a seat on a stone bench. Zoya looked over to a bed of red and orange tiger-lilies.

"This is the most exquisite garden I've ever seen," she announced to break the silence.

"Why don't you pick one," he offered, pointing out the tiger-lilies.

"Oh I couldn't," Zoya protested. "They're all so beautiful—I couldn't bear to see them whither and die."

"They'll all die once the first winter frost sets in," he explained logically, reaching to pluck one of the large blossoms and tuck it behind her ear. "It's the best we can do to savor their beauty while it lasts, and wait for their return in the spring." Zoya smiled, Peter laughed to himself slightly.

"What do you think of me?" He jested. "A king who likes flowers…" Zoya beamed.

"I think you're a very smart king," she said.

Suddenly they were both painfully aware of their proximity. Hardly any light could pass between them, noses were only inches apart. Peter pulled back, Zoya took his arm.

"Peter," she announced. "I don't think I can be your friend anymore…" Peter frowned. "But you have to promise me we'll do this slowly." Peter smiled. "I like you, Peter, and I'm attracted to you, but I can't rush into another romance right now…"

"What ever you want," he agreed, offering her his hand. She took it, and together they returned to the castle hand-in-hand.

***

Zoya was on her way back to her room, flower still tucked above her ear. She was smiling uncontrollably, and, although she still missed Ciaran deeply and was afraid for his safety, she couldn't help herself. She thought nothing could spoil her elated mood. That was until:

"Well, well, well…It looks like Zoya's snagged herself a prince, doesn't it?" Zoya kept walking, ignoring Isi's snide remarks and the catcalls of several other girls.

"What's that?" Isi asked motioning to the flower in Zoya's hair. "A declaration of his undying love for you...Ha! Let me tell you something, darling, he doesn't give a damn about you."

"You know what!" Zoya yelled, marching up to her. "I don't care what you have to say! Peter and I are friends—And I'm happy! So you can take your useless opinions and your flat chest and take them somewhere else 'cause—quite frankly—I just don't give a damn!" Isi stood in shock a moment, at the fact that the usually quiet girl would stand up to her.

"He's only using you!" Isi called forcefully after her. Zoya scoffed, turning back.

"For what?" She asked. "For what?" Isi opened and closed her mouth several times before she was able to reply.

"Sex," she didn't sound too convinced of herself. Zoya rolled her eyes.

"If only I should be so lucky," she scoffed, starting back to her room.

"You're worthless, you know that!" Isi yelled out to her. Zoya turned back in the doorway, calling back:

"And you're just mean!"


	15. Chapter 15

Zoya had joined the four monarchs in the gardens for a light picnic lunch just a few days later. The munched on warm fruit compote, fluffy white bread with a crisp crust, and cold milk. Peter and Zoya sat in close proximity, a detail that did not go unnoticed by the youngest three Pevensies, especially as Zoya stretched out across the grass, and Peter reclined with his head on her stomach.

"Honestly," Susan teased. "The two of you are quite ridiculous." Edmund threw a handful of grass at them, well, mostly at Peter. It stuck, peppering his sun-bleached hair.

"Why don't you just admit it," Susan pressed. "You've been courting on the sly for weeks now!" Peter and Zoya laughed, casting each other sideways glances.

"Well, Susan, for your information," Peter began, mimicking her 'matter-of-factly' tone of voice. "We weren't courting before..." He paused and looked over for Zoya's approval. "But...I think...we are now..." Lucy gasped, rushing forward to hug them both. Susan smiled at them; Edmund did too, however briefly.

"This is so exciting," Lucy declared, clapping her hands together. "When are you getting married?" The questions came out so quickly and abruptly that neither of them had much time to react, save for a growing expression of shock as their inquisitor went on. Peter turned to Zoya with a look of absolute distress plastered on his face. "Oh then we'll be sister Zoya, won't that be exciting! You'll have to be married in the spring and have a baby straight away for me to play with! Won't that be wonderful? How many children will you have? And they'll be little princes and princesses and have to wear little teeny crowns, it'll be so adorable! This is so exciting; I'm getting all keyed up just thinking about it!"

"One step at a time Lu," Peter interrupted finally. "We're not going to rush into anything just yet...You see it's very important that we get this right. You understand Lu?" Lucy seemed somewhat dejected but she nodded.

"I understand," she offered lowly.

"I know!" Susan piped up. "Why don't we all go for a little nature walk!"

"What a wonderful idea!" Lucy agreed, returning to cheerfulness. "Come on Peter! Come on Zoya!" Peter groaned as his sister tried to pull him up.

"I don't want to get up!" He protested. Lucy frowned.

"Tell you what, Lu," Zoya offered. "You go on ahead, Peter and I'll clean up here...and we'll catch up in a bit." Lucy nodded finally, tracking off with her brother and sister. Peter sighed, sprawling belly down in the grass, his chin rested just below Zoya's ribs. He laughed.

"Alone at last!" Peter declared. Zoya laughed tapping his nose. He smiled a little wider. "I was wondering," he proposed. "If you'd be so kind as to accompany me on a little excursion tomorrow—and I've already cleared it by the Duchess, she said it'd be fine."

"Just the two of us?" Zoya questioned. He nodded. "Where would we go?"

"Well," Peter explained, clearing a plot of grass to draw her a map. "Say this is Cair Paravel—" He arranged a piece of their bread from lunch in the grass. "I thought we could cross the river about here," he indicated a point what might have been a few miles inland from Cair Paravel. "Then ride along the beach here, then cut across about here, passed Aslan's How," he traced a line in the grass inward. "And up pasted the old camp— follow the river a few miles, cross about here. And back to Cair Paravel."

"That sounds like it would take all day," Zoya exclaimed as she began to tidy up the picnic things. Peter nodded.

"If we leave just before daybreak we should be back a few hours after nightfall," he explained.

"All day on a horse," Zoya started up. "I'm not sure I could handle that."

"We'd stop about an hour or so for lunch, and break if you needed it," he explained earnestly. "It'd be lots of fun."

"You'd have to come wake me up," she told him as they set aside the picnic basket and started along the path after Edmund, Susan, and Lucy. He smiled.

"I can try," he offered teasingly. "Might have to carry you into the barn and drop you in the water troth." Zoya laughed.

She hadn't wanted to rush into a relationship with Peter, after her courtship with Ciaran seemed to come to such an abrupt, loose ended halt, but she couldn't help but invest in him emotionally. He made her feel safe, he made her feel loved. So instead she made herself a promise not to charge into a physical relationship with him until she was sure it was the right time.

It wasn't always easy (especially when her heart was telling her to take it easy, while her body was saying: 'hello handsome, come to mama,) but so far they had managed to perpetuate a perfectly loving relationship with gentle touches and innocent kisses.

Peter loved the time he spent with Zoya. She made him feel happy, she made him feel loved, she made him feel...young.

"There you two are! What took you so long?" Lucy asked, spotting Zoya and Peter on the path behind them.

"Gee, I wonder..." Edmund teased craftily. Peter nudged his brother's head over gently with on hand.

"What do you have there, Lu?" Zoya asked, motioning to the pile of rocks and twigs and leaves in Lucy's small basket.

"I don't know," Lucy offered over her treasures. "I just think they're pretty." Zoya sat down and began to sort through the basket.

"Let's see now," she offered. "Looks like you've got some quartz crystals in here—some rose quartz, too—that's good, they have protective powers. And here's some pyrite—fools gold; and some obsidian, see those grey spots, that's actually ash, from a volcano, see obsidian is supposed to keep the negativity of other people from overpowering you, so keep this in your pocket.

"And you've got some dandelions, aren't they so pretty! And some buttercups, too...And some gypsum weed here, you can put that on cuts and stings you know, it draws out the toxins to reduce swelling."

"Look Zoya, we found these two different shaped leaves on one tree, isn't it strange?" Lucy explained jovially. Zoya laughed lightly.

"That's sassafras," she explained. "My father used to make beer from the roots, it smelled so good, and it was so sweet."

"And this ugly weed was growing in the shade over there," Lucy ventured on, holding out a small sprig of greens. Zoya took it with a smile and crushed a few leaves of it in her fingers.

"Smell," she instructed, holding it under her nose. Lucy sniffed.

"It smells wonderful," she observed.

"Thyme," Zoya exclaimed, wiping her hands off on her skirts.

"And look at these lovely red berries!" Lucy continued, pulling a handful of glossy red berries from the basket between them. Zoya frowned nervously.

"Those, darling," she began, scooping the berries away from Lucy. "Are very poisonous." She cast the berries off into the underbrush.

"Let's go wash our hands by the well," Zoya offered, scooping Lucy up. Propping the small girl up on her leg, she poured water from a clay jar over both their hands.

"What kind of plant is that?" Peter asked Zoya in private. "I'll have it taken out of the garden."

"Belladonna," Zoya explained. "Deadly nightshade...my mother used to put a little in her tea, she said it helped her relax."

"Does it?" He asked his brow furrowing. Zoya shrugged.

"Not sure, she was always strange like that," Zoya admitted. "I knew a girl who swallowed a handful of those berries...trying to kill herself. Saw a bird that had eaten them die..." Peter observed her critically.

"Looks can be deceiving then," he noted.

Secretly, Zoya would have loved to humor Lucy's about marriage and children. What she wanted more than anything else was a family. She knew she wanted to have children. She wanted a family more than anything. She supposed it was something that came from loosing her own so prematurely. And having a family with Peter—with a man who was strong, and chivalrous, and handsome, a man who could take care of her, and her children—having sisters like Lucy, and Susan—who would always be there for them—and a fun-loving brother like Edmund, to be a teacher and friend...that would be a dream come true.

Before she left the quartet of monarchs, Peter pulled her close to him and leaned over to rub his nose against hers. She laughed lightly, placing a little kiss on the tip of his nose.

"I'll come wake you tomorrow," he offered. Zoya laughed.

"Good luck," she warned him teasingly.

Upon her return to the castle Zoya once again found herself under assault. Lord Bearach caught her by surprise, cornering her in a shady corner of the antechamber.

"The duchess said that she lent you out to the king tomorrow," he growled. "Why?"

"He invited me to go for a ride with him," Zoya returned.

"Where?" The Baron demanded. Zoya tried in vain to push past him.

"I'm not telling you," she spat in return. He forced her back against the wall.

"Listen you worthless hussy!" The Baron growled, his face just inches from hers. "If you think your little inamorato is safe—he's not. Hiding in the marshes, I guess, you think I can't find him—I can, and I will if you don't tell me what I want to know!" Zoya's eyes flashed with fear.

"He said something about Aslan's How," Zoya offered hesitantly. "A battlefield. That's all I know. Now let me go, and leave Ciaran alone." Lord Bearach pushed her roughly on her way.

"You'd better watch yourself," he instructed wickedly. Zoya shuddered.


	16. Chapter 16

Zoya yawned so widely that her jaw cracked as she entered the stables with Peter. He had donned loose riding slacks and a cotton top with roomy sleeves and a drawstring neckline for comfort that morning, while Zoya wore a white blouse and dark brown culottes for modesty.

"Tired?" Peter teased amiably. Zoya rolled her eyes.

"I've always been a bit of a night owl," she admitted.

"C'mon," he instructed. "Tamar's all tacked up for you." She took hold of the horse's mane and swung herself up smoothly while Peter mounted his sorrel stallion. They each had a canteen of cool water, and a rucksack secured at the back of their saddles filled with their lunches and other supplies.

"Ready to go?" He asked. Zoya nodded, and they were off.

They started down the beach at a leisurely walk to give the horses time to warm up. After about a mile Peter coaxed his horse into a slow lope and Zoya soon followed suite, and they weaved in and out of the waves on the beach, their horses kicking up the sea water and sand at each other.

After another mile they slowed to a jog and then to a brisk walk.

"How are you holding up?" Peter asked.

"Good," she answered warmly. "Great, actually." Peter groaned slightly.

"Well, my groin is killing me," he admitted finally. "So let's take it easy for a while..." Zoya laughed.

"So the big, brave warrior-king isn't so tough after all?" She teased with a mischievous smile.

"Don't make fun," he reprimanded. She laughed.

"What are you going to do about it?" Zoya challenged playfully. Peter grinned.

"I'll leave you in the dust when it comes right down to it," he warned. Zoya scoffed.

"Oh really," she challenged. Peter smiled.

"If you wanna go, than we can go," he suggested haughtily, nudging his horse discreetly into a fast walk. Zoya laughed, gathering her reigns.

"Then let's go!' She started up, squeezing hard, sending her horse straight into a lope.

Peter kicked his horse, first into an extended jog and then once more into a gallop. He bounced up and down in the saddle, his horse quickly gaining on Zoya. But as he passed her with one quick jostle he had been thrown from the Andalusian's back, landing sprawling in the sand.

Zoya stopped and laughed, Calero—smart stallion that he was—continued on for a few yards rudderless before doubling back. Peter stood brushing himself off, he took a bow and Zoya applauded him light-heartedly as he moved to mount his horse.

"You know, you really should learn how to ride sometime," she barbed suggestively. Peter scoffed.

"I know how to ride a horse," he assured her proudly. "Oreius taught me himself."

"Oh really," Zoya scoffed. "Oreius taught you? Has Oreius ever ridden a horse? Can Oreius teach you how to feel a horse's movements under you? What muscles to use to signal your horse to walk…jog…lope…stop?" Peter's brow furrowed.

"I…suppose…not," he admitted somewhat reluctantly.

"C'mon, we'll start at a jog," Zoya suggested. "Now before we go…you start with your heels pressed down and toes turned in, it's okay to let your ankle roll under a little bit in the stirrups. When you want the horse to go, squeeze first, and if he doesn't respond, then you kick him a bit—but never use your heel, you'll lose your balance that way."

They started off, Peter following her direction, finally getting Calero to pick up a jog, bouncing slightly in the saddle.

"Now, you feel that," Zoya went on. "Left, right, left, right—just let him push you…sink down in your seat." It took several moments but he finally seemed to get the rhythm of the two-beat gate.

"Now," Zoya continued. "When you go to move into the lope, don't lean forward. Sit back, you'll feel your seat going back and forth…let your hips go with it. When you feel contact, squeeze with your thighs and check with your reigns." Peter grimaced feeling a terrible stinging pain under his ribs.

"You're cramping," Zoya noticed. "It's because you're not breathing normally…talk and you'll breathe." Peter forced an awkward smile.

"Where did you learn to ride anyways?" He asked curiously as they loped side by side.

"My mother used to put me on the wild ponies that came to the spring by our home," she explained. "I was only small then…but when I first came to Galma, I lived with Ciaran's family, at their tavern—the Natty Bumpo Inn, and he was deathly afraid of horsed for a good while. So we would always switch chores: I would work in the stables, cleaning stalls and grooming horses, and he washed dishes…" Peter laughed, finally getting the hang of things.

"Oh the things people would say," he reasoned. "Seeing the High King getting riding lessons from a dancing-girl from Galma…" Zoya smiled, coming to an abrupt halt.

"Who cares what they'd say," she offered. Peter followed suite, and turned pensive. Finally he nodded in agreement with a new determination.

"Come on then," he pressed on, settling himself in the saddle. "We can stop for lunch just a few miles up ahead, and then cross the river." He gave his horse a gentle squeeze and they were off again.

The pair had cut through the woods and stopped for lunch along a narrow section of the River Rush. They settled down, not far from the waters edge. Peter laid out a blanket for them to recline on and spread out their noon-time meal of fresh white bread, cheese, salted meat, a pleasantly fragrant hot wine, fruit, and sugared cakes.

They ate and chatted idly, and when they had finished, Zoya lept up, hiking her skirt up around her knees wading into the calm, clear river water; kicking and splashing water in Peter's direction. Peter laughed from his reclined position, waving her off.

"Let's dance," Zoya suggested. Peter smiled.

"We have no music," he replied.

"Of course we do," she answered. "Just listen." Peter rose.

"I hear crickets chirping," he answered. "The flow of the river…Frogs, doves cooing…" Zoya reached for him with a smile ghosting her strawberry lips.

"They're singing for us," she began, wrapping one arm around his waist, holding his hand her other, rocking them, spinning them, helping Peter find the rhythm of the forest symphony. Zoya laughed as they turned and spun, feet sinking into the fine silt along the shore of the great river as she nuzzled against his neck and shoulder.

"You're tickling me," he laughed as she rubbed her nose against him. Zoya laughed.

"Let's run," she suggested, grabbing his hand pulling him through the forests, picking their way through the thick underbrush as fast as they could go.

Peter still wasn't sure which one of them had tripped first but the next thing he new they were sprawled out in the tall grass side by side. She pounced on him with a playful growl, leaning over him with her hair hanging around his face. He growled back, rolling them over, laughing as Zoya quickly replaced him on top.

She bit into his shoulder gently, he laughed flipping them over once again. She had one leg wrapped around his waist now, keeping them close together as they rolled around on the forest floor. She would playfully nip at him, and occasionally he'd bite her back, she would purr deeply, and he'd growl in the back of his throat. They would laugh, Zoya would pull on his shirt and he would play with her hair; combing his fingers through it, sorting out stray blades of grass as he went.

They frolicked about until they were side by side, belly to belly, panting and sweating, chests heaving in rhythm. Peter swallowed hard.

"Maybe we should get back to the horses," he suggested reluctantly, but not trusting himself to linger any longer.

"Yes," Zoya nodded in agreement. "We should do that…"

They rose, brushing themselves off, and returned to their horses in silence before crossing the river. It was some time after noon when they reached the Stone Table, and the old camp. Peter pointed out the battle field on the horizon and eagerly related to her every fleeting detail of the battle against the White Witch. Zoya was a good attentive listener, interrupting only when absolutely necessary.

And so it was that they began their journey home, unaware of the perils that lay in wait for them.

"Peter we have to stop," Zoya pleaded some time later. "I'm exhausted, my legs are killing me!" They were making their way through a hilly region in the North West, it was growing nearer to dusk and the pair had a few hours left before they would reach Cair Paravel.

"Alright," Peter consented finally. "There's a place, just on the other side of this hill, we can stop and rest." As they reached the peak of the grassy knoll, they looked down upon a crystal clear lake, white sandy shorts, and lush patches of grass. Alongside of the lake, amidst the panoramic scenery there were several large canopies arranged—with tables and hitching posts positioned at meticulously spaced intervals—awaiting to greet weary travelers.

Peter and Zoya made their way down to one of the open tents where several low couches and soft pillows were neatly positioned in the shade, looking absolutely irresistible after a long day in the saddle. There were already a few travelers resting there—a small party of dwarves sitting at a low table munching on biscuits, and a small Minotaur reclined, napping on one of the long couches.

Peter paid the concierge—an elderly, pleasant-mannered faun—for some temporary lodgings and asked to have their horses watered and fed. The Faun courteously showed them to a secluded room, sectioned off by drapes, and served them fragrant tea cheerfully before leaving them to rest.

Peter and Zoya sipped the jasmine and chamomile tea from delicate porcelain cups, watching one another curiously.

"It's strong," she noted. He nodded.

"Do like it?" He asked. Zoya shook her head in agreement.

"Very much so," she offered.

The two set their teacups aside before settling in for some well-needed sleep.

Zoya fluffed a downy pillow against the arm of the couch and rested her head there, stretching out. Peter shifted restlessly for several minutes before Zoya moved to touch his arm.

"What's wrong?" She questioned worriedly with concern painted across her features. Peter shook his head vigorously.

"Nothing…" He replied. "I don't know…I can't shake this sinking feeling." Zoya sighed. She motioned for him to come closer, and as he moved to comply, she gathered him into her chest and began to rake her fingers through his sun-kissed hair.

"Relax," she instructed soothingly in his ear. "Lay back, take some rest, and when you wake, you won't be so troubled." Peter nodded, letting himself relax into her arms. She was touching his face, stroking the back of her hand down his cheek, dragging two fingers down his jaw line, and tickling his nose and chin lightly. He smiled in spite of himself, and leaned into her careful dotting.

"You're feverish," Zoya warned finally, reaching behind her for the wash basin. She dipped the clean white cloth into the bowl of cool water, wringing it out with one fist, before pressing it to his brow, cheeks, and neck. Peter groaned a little in the back of his throat.

"Feels nice," he mumbled, settling into her further. Zoya smiled absently stroking his hair, watching the blue-green of his summer-storm eyes fade as their lids grew heavier and heavier, before he slipped into a peaceful sleep and Zoya would soon follow.

***

Peter woke with a start. He peered around frantically and realized that Zoya was nowhere to be found. It was dark, save for the amber glow of the fire beyond the curtains of the tent. He searched for his sword briefly to no avail, before making his way out from under the canopy.

The sight that awaited him left him horror-stricken. The small pleasant camp was devastated, left in piles of rubble and smoldering ash. Burly men cloaked in black, and dark creatures: a Minotaur, an Ape, and several black dwarves, had completely sacked the camp. And to Peter's absolute terror, a pair of men were holding Zoya's arms behind her back. Although she was restrained she was still putting up a rather vicious fight. She struggled against them, screaming, biting, and thrashing—kicking one unfortunate man, who ventured too close, in the face—before they managed to wrestle her to the ground.

The weight of the situation settled over him. They were alone, Zoya was in trouble, and he had no weapon. Peter's knees felt weak as his vision started to cloud before a sharp scream brought him back to reality.

"Well, well, well," one of the men taunted. "What have we got here? Has Sleeping Beauty finally arisen?" Zoya let out a brief scream.

"Release her!" Peter ordered gallantly. "Take what you want and go!" The ring leader of the rogue band sneered back at him, twirling his sword menacing.

"Here's another idea," he spat vindictively. "I kill you; we take what we please—and the girl—and leave whenever we wish." He lunged at Peter, brandishing his sword.

Peter sidestepped haphazardly, seizing the larger man's wrist, twisting the sword out of his grip. The larger man pulled a dagger from his belt swiftly, moving to thrust it down into the young king's shoulder. Peter blocked the assault with his free forearm, pushing the man away, sending them both to the ground.

The man scrambled to take up his sword again, forgetting for the moment that there was still another weapon in play. He charged Peter, who, at that time, had gained enough leverage to thrust the dagger through his ribs with substantial force.

Peter groaned loudly, pushing the dead weight off of him, and forcing himself to his feet. The other scoundrels appeared more shocked than angered at the outcome of the skirmish, and for several moments a deadening stillness had settled over the campground. And then the Minotaur charged Peter.

He had scarce enough time to think, finding himself under attack so suddenly. He had no time to dodge or parry, only to dig his heels in and hope his strength could save him. He grabbed hold of the Minotaur's horns, every muscle in his body straining to keep the deadly spikes from gutting him, and with all the strength he had left—without thought or reason, but by simple muscle-memory—he twisted until he heard a loud crack and the Minotaur's weight fell out from under him like a cannonball into the sea.

He was exhausted now, but the other rogue villains were too startled terrified to wage anymore war with him at this time, and many of them fled as fast and far away as they could get. Zoya made a large to-do of chasing after them, throwing rocks and kicking dirt, shouting and screaming:

"May the White Witch and her nine blind illegitimate children chase you so far over the hills of damnation that Aslan himself couldn't find you with a telescope!" She sighed in satisfaction, arms akimbo, watching the last of the stragglers disappearing through the hills, before returning cautiously to the spot where Peter laid, clutching handfuls of grass.

"Peter," she whispered, kneeling besides him. "Are you hurt at all?" He nodded frantically as she took his hands in hers.

"Are you alright?" He asked in a broken voice.

"I'm fine, thanks to you," she offered lovingly. "Peter you're trembling..."

"I'm alright," he offered uneasily. "I'm just..." Zoya pulled the young, frighten, tired king into her to try and ease his tremors. "It's just that—when I saw you...and I thought..."

"It's alright," she assured him. "It's alright—I'm safe...we're safe. You were very brave, and very strong." Peter nodded with the slightest of a smile and she pulled him closer, rubbing his back and setting her chin in the nook where his shoulder met his neck.

"It's okay," she told him simply, soothingly, with the slightest hint of a relieved laugh in her voice. Peter nodded finally, letting his tensed body relax in her arms. He closed his eyes, trying to remember how to think straight, or breathe, before turning his head to gently brush his lips to hers.

It wasn't much of a kiss, at first. More of a fond, familiar gesture shared between friends, like holding hands or a pat on the back. But it soon grew deeper, continuing on with a burning passion that neither of them had ever felt before. Hands groped instinctively, lips inseparable for the longest time, teeth gnashing together occasionally, tongues at war with one another.

Now their breath was coming in hot, short spurts. For the longest time there were no words between them, or even motion—just the sounds of the birds, at the wind, and breath.

Zoya was first to shatter the vertigo, smiling and resting her brow against his, so that their nosed rubbed together gently. Peter let out a casual half-laugh, and it seemed the most joyous sound either of them had experienced in the longest time.

"I care about you," Peter declared finally, as if it were the truest thing in all the world. Zoya nodded, taking his hand, lacing her fingers with his. Declaring in the most gentle, adoring tone:

"I care about you too, Peter."

After that the ride back to Cair Paravel was uneventful. Upon reaching the castle, both the travelers were worn too weary to return to their rooms, and instead settled in on one of the couches on the first floor library, besides a blazing fire, wrapped up in thick afghans, cuddling with each other and many goose-down pillows.

"Peter," Zoya cooed lovingly. Settling against him. Peter smiled tiredly.

"Say that again," he pleaded. She complied and then asked him why. "I like my name best when you say it," he offered. Zoya smiled, answering: "So do I."

And so with overwhelming feelings of comfort and love and security, the two jaded travelers finally eased into a well-earned, good-night's sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

Zoya woke, slowly peeking her head out from under a pile of blankets, looking like a tired gopher coming hesitantly out of her cubbyhole. Peter smiled down at her with eyes full of sleep.

"Good morning sunshine," he greeted her with a slight yawn.

"Good morning," she returned, settling in comfortably against his chest. Peter sat, looking down at the top of her head lovingly.

"Zoya, can I tell you something?" He questioned, she shifted to look up at him. "It's sort of important to me."

"Of course, Peter, you can tell me anything," she answered focusing her attention to his every word.

"You see," he began slowly. "Through this whole festival..." He sighed. "How can I tell you this? I'm turning eighteen Zoya, and by the time a king turns eighteen he ought to have some plan for taking a wife. So all the while I've been having so much fun with you..."

"We do have so much fun together," Zoya interjected lovingly, nuzzling against his chest. Peter's smile broadened across his features. "Playing and laughing and picnicking with your brother and sisters and swimming and dancing—"

"Yes we do," he agreed, cutting her off gently. "But all the while, in the back of my mind, I was keeping my eye out for the perfect queen, and now there are only two days left of this festival—"

"Oh Peter, you might find your perfect queen yet," Zoya assured him encouragingly. "And we'll always be friends."

"I hope we will," Peter agreed. "And I think I have...found my perfect queen...she's you." There was a silence between them as Zoya opened and closed her mouth several times unsurely.

"I—uh—Peter, I don't understand," she offered. "I thought we were just going to have fun...you said I didn't have to rush into anything..."

"I know," he groaned slightly. "I know, and I'm so sorry for putting this decision on you now, but last night...I realized just how much I truly, truly love you, and I can't picture my life without you." He paused a moment in order to rifle through his pocket.

"I went to the goldsmith a few days ago, and I saw this ring and it made me think of you," he announced finally managing to pull the trinket from the deep folds of his pocket—an emerald set in an embossed gold band. "And I was planning on giving it to you on the last day of the festival, so that you would have something to remember me by...And now I'm hoping you'll accept it...as a token of our engagement." Zoya was silent for what felt like the longest time, trying desperately to look into both his eyes at once.

"Peter," she started up finally, her voice less than a whisper. "I...yes." She nodded at him with a smile, one which he promptly returned, and offered him her hand. He slid the ring onto her finger, finding it slid of just as readily.

"It's too big," she announced uneasily.

"It's alright," Peter assured her comfortingly. "I'll get you a chain to wear it on until I can get it sized, alright? No worries." Zoya nodded with a loving sigh as Peter soothingly cradled her in his strong arms.

***

Zoya was in the dorm room, dancing with a phantom groom, with some of her things spread across the bed. She hummed a romantic waltz to herself, twirling back and forth dreamily. She didn't notice Adele entering the bedchamber with some freshly laundered clothes.

"What's got you so happy today?" She questioned offhandedly as she began to pack away some of her things in the duffle on her soft, white bed.

"Why shouldn't I be happy?" Zoya questioned chipperly, taking her friend's hands and spinning her under their arms. "It's a beautiful day…I have a wonderful life, doing what I love…and wonderful friends to share it with."

"What is that?!" Adele demanded, catching sight of the chain around Zoya's neck, as it slipped out from under the neckline of her dress as the turned and spun playfully.

"This?" Zoya admitted slowly, taking the ring in her hands. "Peter gave it to me…and he—um—asked me to marry him…and I said yes."

"Oh my God!" Adele screamed at the top of her lungs.

"Adele," Zoya reasoned pleadingly. "It's really nothing to get so excited over."

"Nothing to get excited over?" Adele exclaimed. "Zoya! You're marrying a king!"

Isi stood outside the bedchamber door, glaring resentfully in at the pair of friends. With a new found maliciousness she stormed off down the hall, passing, at length, Lord Bearach's chamber. She soon noticed that he was offhandedly muttering to himself.

"Goddamn vagrants aren't worth a damn thing!" There was a loud thud as he punched the drywall forcefully. "All they have to do is dispose of a pair of children and they can't even get that right! How many times did I tell them: get rid of the king first, and then have your fun, but do they listen to me? No…Son of a bitch!" There was another pronounced thud from the other side of the oaken door.

A malicious grin spread across Isi's features as she raised her hand to knock. The door was jerked open violently by the Lord a moment later.

"What?" He demanded, glaring down at her.

"I have some information," Isi explained craftily. "That I believe you will find very…useful." Bearach stared down at her appraisingly.

"Come inside," he suggested, opening the door for her to pass. She followed him inside and he shut the door, pointedly barring it behind her.

Prince Rabadash was reclined in his suite at Cair Paravel, with his many servants attending him, when there was a knock on the chamber door. His valet quickly went to open it.

"Who is it?" He called in disinterest.

"A girl, your highness," the manservant answered reverently.

"Show her in," he instructed. A moment later, a young girl entered his audience, a very beautiful young girl. "Leave us," he ordered, waving off his servants. They quickly dispersed, leaving him alone with the young girl.

"Your highness," she began cordially, curtsying low. "I bring a proposition from my lord." She handed him a thick piece of parchment, folded twice, sealed with wax. He opened it cautiously, reading the contents once or twice before gazing critically back at the girl.

***

Zoya and Peter sat together in the gardens, munching on strawberry and crème sandwiches and sipping lemonade, watching the pixies and butterflies playing amongst the flowers.

"Will you be my guest to the ball this evening?" Peter asked her. "So that we can share our happiness with the rest of the kingdom?"

"Oh, Peter," Zoya admitted regrettably. "I'm so tired…I'm just not up for it—I'm not ready for another grand party."

"Very well," Peter replied understandingly. "You lounge out here, or go take a nap, take a bath," he reached for her hand and kissed it lightly. "And if you feel up for it, tonight, after the party, you can come to my room and we'll have a glass of wine and celebrate ourselves."

"I will," she agreed with a pleasant smile.

"Now I hate to run off on you," he admitted. "But I really must go get ready. Susan will have my head if I keep my guests waiting again."

"Alright," she consented, allowing him up. "Have fun, I'll see you tonight." Peter kissed her once on each cheek before heading on his way. Zoya sat, basking in the sun for a little while longer, before rising to return to her chamber for a quick nap.

The halls were mostly empty, with many of the castle dwellers preparing for the nights festivities.

"Planning on a little tête-à-tête with your boy-king tonight?" The voice sent chills down her spine as Lord Bearach fell into step beside her. He cut her off, forcing her into an empty corridor.

"Leave me alone," she spat, even as he backed her into the wall.

"Leave you alone," he scoffed. "Don't forget, girl, I own you. And if you know what's good for you, you'll do exactly what I say." He removed a small glass vial from his jacket pocket, and placed it in her hand. "You slip a little of this in the kings drink tonight and you'll have nothing to fear from me."

"How dare you!" Zoya started up vehemently.

"Now you listen to me girl," he warned. "If you care anything for your renegade lover, your little avant-garde companions, Adele and Malika—you will do as I say—defy me and I will make your life a living hell." He shoved her shoulders hard into the wall behind her and stormed off. Zoya stood in shock; she was shaking all over, with the glass vial still in her hand.

She returned to her room as quickly as she could and curled up on her soft, white bed. She tossed and turned for what seemed like an eternity, ripping the sheets and blankets off the bed, trying to think things through. She became so restless she just had to get up. She paced down to the bathroom and drew herself a warm bubble bath.

She was soaking in the water, trying to wrap her head around her options. She could do as Bearach asked, but then Peter's life was in danger. She could defy him, but then he would go after Ciaran, and Adele, and Malika. She loved Peter, but she had not known him as long as she had known the others. She felt as though she owed them her loyalty. And then there was Peter, and he asked her to be his wife. But Peter was strong; he was so much stronger than Bearach. She knew he could face anything that Bearach dared to throw at him. She still wasn't sure if it was right, but she was fairly certain in her choice.

Zoya still had not managed to control her shaking hands as Peter welcomed her into his bedchamber. Peter welcomed her in, giving her a hug and kisses that seemed to burn on her skin.

"Look what I found for us," he began playfully, shaking a long-necked bottle of wine in front of her. "Come on, you can help me." He motioned, putting one arm around her and leading her out to the balcony. He stood behind her, putting the bottle in her hands, thumbs on the top of the cork.

"I can't get it," Zoya admitted, biting her lower lip.

"Let me help you," Peter suggested, wrapping both arms around her, putting his hands on top of hers. There was a loud pop as the cork came free and skated across the lawn. Zoya laughed as the foaming wine spilled out over both their hands.

"I'll pour this," she offered sweetly, motioning to the pair of glasses on the garden table. "You go sit down." He smiled agreeably, nuzzling his nose against her cheek and down her neck before heading inside. Zoya watched him go with a growing sourness in her stomach as she poured wine into the glasses. After making sure Peter wasn't watching her, Zoya took the small vial from her pocket and poured its clear contents into one of the glasses, careful to remember which as she came inside and handed it over to him.

"A toast," he suggested warmly, holding out his glass.

"To us," Zoya suggested, doing likewise.

"To happily ever after," Peter added. "With the woman I love." He was smiling lovingly back at her as they touched their glasses together. And in that moment, Zoya realized she couldn't go through with it. She quickly took a sip of her wine and made a face.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

"Tastes strange," she explained briefly. "Do you think it might have been a sour bottle?"

"It shouldn't be. Let me try," Peter offered, moving to take a sip from his glass.

"Maybe I just got a bad glass," she interrupted frantically. He stared at her strangely. "Perhaps I got a bit too much foam or something..."

"Here, switch with me and see if it's any better." They exchanged glasses and Zoya cautiously took a sip of the tainted wine. "Any better?" He questioned.

"I suppose," she agreed. "Perhaps it's me…maybe I just don't have the taste for such rich wines yet." She took another sip forcing a smile. For the longest time he was just gazing fixedly at her and it was starting to make her uncomfortably.

"What are you staring at?" She questioned uneasily over her glass of wine.

"Nothing," he answered with a smile. And that was when Zoya felt her stomach revolting; she started coughing; her hands were shaking enough that she lost hold of the glass, letting the contents spill out onto the floor.

"Are you alright?" Peter asked, rising from his seat in concern. Zoya shook her head, falling off her chair and onto all fours, vomiting up blood and wine before passing out in a cold sweat.

Zoya had been taken to a room near the castle healer. The four monarchs as well as a few of their closest advisors had gathered in his chamber, trying to decipher what had happened.

"She'll be alright won't she?" Lucy asked frantically.

"We don't' know," Oreius replied gently. "The physician said that if she makes it through the night there is a very good chance

"Do you think she was sick?" Lucy asked worriedly. Peter was seated in an armchair by the fire, raking his shaking hands through his blond hair.

"She seemed fine," he said in a voice filled with sorrow. "And then she had a couple sips of wine, and she started coughing, and shaking and sweating…"

"You think poison?" Edmund asked one of the courtiers present—a faun named Cassio.

"Perhaps," supplied the faun, lifting the forgotten glass from the floor, sniffing it cautiously before toughing a drop to his lips. He groaned and spat. "Aye, it was poison."

"But Peter is just fine, isn't he?" Lucy asked in concern.

"Who on earth would want to poison Zoya?" Susan asked in disgust. It was not until then that Peter realized:

"We switched glasses."


	18. Chapter 18

Zoya woke slowly, realizing all too quickly that she ached all over. And there was Peter sitting at her bedside with his chin rested woefully on his hands. She started up with a sigh, lifting herself into a sitting position.

"Peter," she began cautiously. He would not meet her eyes. Zoya sat up too quickly, leaving her feeling dizzy. "Peter, what's the matter?"

"You tried to kill me Zoya," he snapped suddenly. She shook her head in panicked disbelief.

"No!" She protested hopelessly.

"Then who did?" He yelled. "The poison was in the cup you offered me. The rest of the bottle was fine, if there was someone else there to poison that cup—tell me now..." His eyes were sad, "And I would believe you." Zoya's lip trembled.

"Peter I never wanted to hurt you," she started frantically; she felt sick, she ached all over. He lunged at her heatedly.

"Why?" He demanded, grabbing her arms, shaking her gently. "Why?"

"Peter, I was scared," she yelled back, trying to explain herself in vain.

"Scared of what, Zoya?" He shouted back, pushing her away, leaping to his feet. "Scared of what? Scared that I might love you with all my heart? What is wrong with you Zoya?"

"I don't know!" She yelled; she was shaking. "I don't...Peter I love you!" Her voice broke piteously.

"**Don't!**" He bellowed furiously, blue eyes flashing with rage, pacing away from her, pointing back accusingly. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you—but if you ever, ever say that again, I'll kill you."

"Peter," she returned softly, lips quivering, eyes teeming with tears. "Peter...Please believe me."

"I can't," He admitted somberly as he walked out without giving her a second look and locked the door behind him.

Zoya helplessly threw herself down in bed, buried her face in her pillow, and screamed as loud as she could as she wept desperately.

***

Zoya had not lifted her head since Peter had stormed away, and she did not look even as she heard the door open and heavy footfalls enter the room.

"Trying to smother yourself now?" The man asked hurtfully, with a wicked laugh. She hugged the fluffy down pillow closer to her face as Lord Bearach paced around the room. He took off his jacket, and hung it at the wardrobe. He took the chair that Peter had previously occupied and kicked off his shoes victoriously, and propped his feet up on her bed.

"Although I cannot say thing went exactly according to my plan," he offered nonchalantly. "I must admit, this does prove to be a most convenient arrangement—you out of the way, and the boy-king otherwise occupied. What do you have to say to that...hmm?" He nudged her on the arm with his foot. Zoya sat up, glaring defiantly back at him.

"How dare you touch me," She yelled, starting up, slapping him across the face hard enough to send him sprawling across the floor. "How dare you!" She advanced on him as he scrambled to hid feet.

"You worthless bitch," he warned. "I'll have your head for this." She paid no heed to his words, because she felt as though she were already dead.

"You never touch me!" She spat hatefully, tossing a pillow violently at him. The befuddled lord started backwards, swatting the pillow away with one arm. "You never touch me!" She was yelling at the top of her lungs now, throwing everything within her grasp.

"I hate you!" She yelled, tossing a second pillow at him. "I hate you! I hate you!" She grabbed the toppled chair and tossed it at him with all her strength. Lord Bearach ducked and the chair hit the door behind him, bring a pair of guards into the room.

"Get out!" She screamed at him, her face blushing hot crimson. "Get out!"

"Guards, this woman is absolutely mad," the startled baron declared. "She tried to kill me." The first soldier rolled his eyes slightly.

"Get him out!" Zoya screamed indignantly. "Get him out!"

"Perhaps we'd better listen to the lady," began the second guard, guiding the slightly battered nobleman out of the chamber.

As the door closed and locked behind them, Zoya snatched up on of his discarded boots and dashed it against the wall. And onto the floor fell a folded piece of parchment.

Zoya paced over slowly and carefully picked up the piece of parchment. The wax seal had already been broken, and she unfolded the letter carefully, a note written in a scrawling hand. As she read through its contents her heat began to beat faster as her stomach sunk anxiously and her hands sweat nervously, even before the meaning of the words on the page began to set in.

_Lord Bearach, _

_I accept your proposition. If you should succeed in disposing of the Narnian High King, you will have the aid of my men in securing the kingdom, on the condition that you should leave Queen Susan alive and deliver her to me. _

Zoya was unsure how to proceed. Peter and his family were in grave danger, and she had the evidence to prove that Lord Bearach was behind it. But she was locked in a chamber, and Peter obviously was not expecting to meet her. Still, she had to get to him somehow.

Frantically she moved out onto the balcony. The railings of juxtaposed rooms nearly touched, Zoya observed, as a familiar face emerged from the adjacent room.

"Mr. Tumnus!" She declared hopefully.

"Oh, Zoya," gaped the faun in alarm. "I'm afraid you're in quite the fix my dear," he admitted to her sympathetically.

"I'm innocent, Mr. Tumnus," Zoya insisted, holding out Lord Bearach's letter. "And I can prove it! Peter is in grave danger I must get to him." The faun furrowed his brow curiously.

"Well," he began. "Let's suppose perhaps, that I just happened to leave my balcony door ajar while I head over to alert the guards outside your room to a broken window down the corridor, now theoretically, that might give you enough time to get to the throne room...that is of course, just supposing that I would leave my balcony door open." Zoya nodded graciously.

"I see," she offered. "Good day then, Mr. Tumnus."

"Good day, Zoya," he agreed, stepping back inside. Zoya waited a few moments before tucking the folded piece of parchment into the front of her bodice and stepping up onto the railing. Holding onto the castle wall for balance, she took a step over onto the neighboring railing, and hopped down to the marble tile of the balcony.

She paced through the chamber as swiftly as she could, and peered cautiously down the corridor. It was deserted, so she slipped out, closing the door quietly behind her, and proceeded to stealthily make her way towards the throne room. She moved quickly and quietly, occasionally hiding behind pillars when ever the opportunity provided itself.

She was not far from the throne room when she saw him. Lord Bearach. And he saw her. And then she ran.

As fast as she could she sprinted down the hall, Lord Bearach at her heels. She skid on the pristine floors occasionally, and swung around pillars as she took the corners. She was just a few yards from the door to the chamber now, but her chest was burning, and Bearach was gaining on her. A moment later she pulled the note from the front of her dress and she hit the door hard.

The grand hall was filled with Narnian couriers, all of whom were quick to start up at the sight of her. Peter included. She rushed to him and threw herself down at the foot of his grand throne, forcing the piece of parchment into his hands.

"My King, your life is in jeopardy," she began desperately. "Please you must believe me...this letter I found in Lord Bearach's affects. Please you must believe me!" Peter read through the letter once or twice, his face turning grave. Oreius was looking over his shoulder to read the letter, and Zoya had her head resting in his lap.

"Zoya, who wrote this letter?" Peter asked urgently. Zoya shook her head from where she was kneeling before him.

"I do not know, Your Highness," she replied. The weight of the letter had set in amongst the court, leaving the room in silence by the time Bearach entered the chamber.

"Your Highness," he announced, Zoya let out an involuntary whimper, hugging Peter closer. "This woman is a liar and a thief! She's stolen some of my personal effects."

"You mean this?" Peter asked sternly, holding up the letter. "Guards, take this man to the very edge of this kingdom, and let it be known that if he is ever seen again, he is to be killed immediately, without question."

Peter stroked Zoya's hair lovingly; Oreius and several other soldiers dragged the newly exiled nobleman away.

"Zoya I'm so sorry I didn't believe you," he offered gently. "I'm sorry I yelled...I owe you my life. Everything is alright now; me, Lucy, Ed and Su—we're all safe thanks to you." Zoya gave a brief sigh of relief and then began to cry.


	19. Chapter 19

Zoya sat in the Duchess's chamber, in front of the fire, wrapped in a blanket, with a cup of hot tea in her quaking hands.

"My little, Zoya," the Duchess began sweetly sitting beside her on the overstuffed couch, rubbing her shoulders gently. "My little star-child, I am glad to have you back. You should get some sleep. You've has a very trying day, and our ship leaves for Galma in the morning."

"I had no intention of returning to Galma this morning," Zoya explained, staring blankly into the crackling fire. "Peter asked me to marry him."

"Surely you would not still have him after everything he put you through," Lady Oilell replied, wrapping one arm around the weary girl. Zoya shrugged.

"He loves me," she replied.

"That's what all men say," the duchess replied. "But in the end they give you nothing but trouble. You must come home."

"But I can see it in his eyes," Zoya insisted.

"He's just like all other men, I grantee," the duchess went on. "They're not worth half the pain they'll cause. They'll all use you and leave you heartbroken in the end—even a prince...or a king."

"I couldn't stop loving him, just the same," Zoya admitted weakly.

"Yes, my dear, but could you live with him?" The gentlewoman asked. "After all you told him you were innocent, and he didn't believe you."

***

"Hello Peter," Lucy offered cheerfully, sitting down beside her brother on the veranda. "Where is Zoya this morning? I looked in her chamber, but she wasn't there." Peter sighed heavily, looking out towards the coast.

"She's chosen to sail home to Galma," he offered.

"But you said that she had accepted your proposal," Lucy offered, seeming somewhat disappointed.

"She did," Peter said sadly. "But a lot has changed since then, she decided she could not have me, and she left with the court of Galma this morning. She didn't even say good-bye....I hope you're not too disappointed." Lucy sighed and shrugged.

"No...not really," she answered comfortingly.

"Why don't you run inside and get some breakfast," Peter suggested. "I'll be right in." Lucy got up and skipped off, although her spirits were slightly dampened.

Peter stood, moving to walk down to the beach. He walked down to the water, leaving footprints in the wet sand. He thought he heard the sound of someone approaching, and spun around to be faced by a great lion.

"Aslan," Peter began. "It's good to see you. I think I need your advice now more than ever."

"Zoya has chosen to return to Galma," Aslan replied knowingly, standing besides the young king. "And you still love her."

"I do," Peter responded, gazing out across the calm waters that would carry his love away from his land.

"But you let her go," the great lion continued. "Why?"

"I lost her," Peter answered looking down upon the lion's golden head and soulful eyes. "She told me that she loved me and I doubted her."

"Hearts do heal with time and sincerity," Aslan reminded him sagely.

"But it is too late now," Peter replied. Aslan seemed to smile a knowing lion-smile.

"It is never too late for love."

Zoya stood at stern of the ship, gazing out across the busy dock as the ship prepared to leave port.

"What are you waiting for?" Adele had snuck up on her. Zoya shrugged.

"I don't know," she said. "I just can't help but wish that any moment now Peter will come running down that dock and he'll whisk me off my feet and kiss me and tell me that he loves me and he'll never leave me again."

"If he doesn't come," Adele assured her. "It'll be alright. You're a whole person. A good dancer...a better friend—queen or not." Zoya could not help but appease her friend with a laugh and a loving smile.

"Thank you, Adele," Zoya replied as the sails were raised and the anchor was heaved up.

Peter arrived at the docks with his siblings, and a few close advisors. They dismounted their horses along dock and started down the long pier. To his dismay the ship had already set sail and was halfway across the harbor.

He raked a hand through his hair desperately.

"It's too late," he declared looking back at Susan, Edmund, and Lucy. "I came too late. She's gone. She's...gone."

"Oh, Peter," Susan began, moving to place one arm over him, letting him nestle his head on her shoulder. "I'm so sorry..."

Zoya had not left her lookout post at the back of the boat; the dock was still in sight. That was when she saw it: their faces were barely discernable, but it was a crowd of people clad in royal red and gold.

"Adele," she shouted gleefully.

"What? Zoya what's wrong, what is it?" She asked.

"He came!" Zoya answered. "He came...he loves me."

"Oh, Zoya," Adele began sympathetically. "We've already left port." Zoya gauged the distance between the ship and the dock.

"I love you, Adele," she declared, kissing her dear friend on the cheek. "Always remember that."

Peter had straightened up, and started to walk away. He was determined to make plans to follow her to Galma as soon as a ship was made ready. That was when he heard the splash and amidst all the commotion on the pier and from the ship that was sailing away he could only form one coherent thought:

Zoya was in the water.

His body was moving of its own accord as he raced down the dock, stripping off excess clothes as he went, leaping into the water. She was halfway back to the pier by the time he was within reach.

"Zoya!" He called out desperately.

"Peter!" She screamed back as she swam towards him. "I'm alright!"

"Come on," he encouraged, offering her a hand.

"I'm alright," she answered, starting past him.

They reached the dock, and Peter pushed Zoya in front of him, helping Edmund and a few other men to pull her up, before several others offered him a helping hand.

And for a moment they laid, sprawled out on the dock together, limbs tangled, panting under the watchful gaze of many members of the court of Cair Paravel.

"You jumped in the ocean," Peter announced, gazing deeply into the eyes of the woman he loved. She beamed back at him before replying:

"And you jumped in after me."

THE END


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